UC-NRLF 


B  ^  SOS  014 


^.  it<^ 


TRAVELLERS  IN  A  STORM,  MOUNT  WASHINGTON. 


tourist's   vgbition 


THE   HEART 


OF   THE 


WHITE  MOUNTAINS 


THEIR  LEGEND  AND  SCENERY 


BY 


SAMUEL     AD  A  M  S     DRAKE 

AUTHOR   OF    "NOOKS   AND   CORNERS   OF   THE   NEW    ENGLAND    COAST" 
"CAPTAIN  NELSON"  ETC. 


WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS   BY 

W.    HAMILTON    GIBSON 


"Eyes  loose:   thoughts  dose" 


NEW     YORK 
HARPER     &     P.ROTHERS.     1-  R  A  X  K  L  I  N     SQUARE 

1882 


\-4 

T37(o 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1881,  by 

HARPER   &    BROTHERS, 
In  the   Office   of  the   Librarian   of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


A  a  rights  rf  served. 


To  JOHN  G.  WHITTIER: 

A//  illustrious  and  venerated  bard,  icko  shares  xvith  you  the  love  and  honor 
of  his  countrymen,  tells  us  that  the  poets  are  the  best  travelling  eoinpanions.  Like 
Orlando  in  the  forest  of  Arden,  they  ''hang  odes  on  hatot horns  and  elegies  on 
thistles." 

In  the  spirit  of  that  delightful  eouipanionship,  so  graeiously  announced,  it  is 
to  you,  zi'ho  have  kindled  on  our  aged  summits 

"  The  light  that  iiciier  was  on  sea  nr  land, 
The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream," 

that  this  volume  is  affectionately  dedicated  by 

THE   AUTHOR. 


M44448 


PREFACE. 


THE  very  flattering  reception  which  the  sumptuous  holiday  edition 
of  "  The  Heart  of  the  White  Mountains  "  received  on  its  debut  has 
decided  the  Messrs.  Harper  to  re-issue  it  in  a  more  convenient  and  less 
expensive  form,  with  the  addition  of  a  Tourist's  Appendix,  and  an  Index 
farther  adapting  it  for  the  use  of  actual  travellers.  While  all  the  original 
features  remain  intact,  these  additions  serve  to  render  the  references  in 
the  text  intelligible  to  the  uninstructed  reader,  and  at  the  same  time  help 
to  make  a  practical  working  manual.  One  or  two  new  maps  contribute 
to  the  same  end. 

I  take  the  opportunity  thus  afforded  me  to  say  that,  when  "  The  Heart 
of  the  White  Mountains  "  was  originally  prepared,  I  hoped  it  might  go 
into  the  hands  of  those  who,  making  the  journey  for  the  first  time,  feel  the 
need  of  something  different  from  the  conventional  guide-book  of  the  day, 
and  for  whom  it  would  also  be,  during  the  hours  of  travel  or  of  leisure 
among  the  mountains,  to  some  extent  an  entertaining  as  well  as  a  useful 
companion.  So  far  as  author  and  publisher  are  concerned,  that  purpose 
is  now  realized. 

Finally,  I  wrote  the  book  because  I  could  not  help  it. 

Samuel  Adams  Drake. 

Melrose,  January,  1882. 


GENERAL   CONTENTS. 


FIRST  JOURNEY. 

PAGE 

I.  My  Travelling  Companions i 

II.  Incomparable  Winnipiseogee :  Voyage  from  Wolfborough  to  Centre  Harbor. 
— The  Indians. — Centre  Harbor. — Legendary. — Ascent  of  Red  Hill. — Sunset 
on  the  Lake 8 

III.  Chocorua  :  Stage  Journey  to  Tamworth. — Scramble  for   Places. — Valley  of  the 

Bear  Camp. — Legend  of  Chocorua. — Sandwich  Mountains.— Chocorua  Lake. 
— Ascent  of  Mount  Chocorua i8 

IV.  Loveu-ell:  Fryeburg. — Lovewell's   Fight. — Desperate   Encounter  with  the  Pig- 

wackets. — Death  of  Paugus ZZ 

V.  North  Conway:  The  Antechamber  of  the  Mountains. — White  Horse  Ledge. — 
Fording  the  Saco. — Indian  Custom. — Echo  Lake. — The  Cathedral. — Diana's 
Baths. — Artists'  Falls. — The  Moats. — Winter  Ascent  of  Mount  Kearsarge    .  39 

VI.  From  Kearsarge  to  Carrigain :  Conway  Intervales.  —  Bartlett  Bowlder. — 
Singular  Homicide. — Bartlett. — A  Lost  Village. — Ascent  of  Mount  Carrigain. 
— A  Shaggy  Wilderness 55 

VII.  Valley  of  the   Saco:   Autumnal    Foliage. — The    Story  of    Nancy.  —  Doctor 

Bemis. — Abel    Crawford,  the    Veteran    Guide.  —  Ethan  A,  Crawford. — The 

Mount   Crawford  Glen. — Giant's   Stairs. — Frankenstein  Cliff. — Superb  View 

of  Mount  Washington. — Mount  Willey .     .  66 


viii  GENERAL     CONTENTS. 

PACE 

VIII.  Through  the  N'otch :  Great  Notch  of  the  White  Mountains. — The  Willey 
House,  and  Slide  of  1826. — "Colonizing"  Voters. — Mount  Willard. — Mount 
Webster,  and  its  Cascades. — Gate  of  the  Notch. — Summit  of  the  Pass  .     .     76 

IX.  Crah'FOKD's :  The  Elephant's  Head. — Crawford  House,  and  Glen. — Discovery 

of  The  Notch. — Ascent  of  Mount  Willard. — Magnificent  coup  d'lxil    ...     87 

X.  The  Ascent  from  CRAiiFonn's :  The  Bridle-path. — Wreck  of  ilie  Forest. — 
A  Forest  of  Ice. — Dwarf  Trees. — Summit  of  Mount  Clinton. — Caught  in  a 
Snow-storm. — The  Colonel's  Hat. — Oakes's  Gulf. — The  Plateau. — Climbing 
the  Dome. — The  Summit  at  Last ■     •     95 


SECOND   JOURNEY. 

1.  Legends  of  the  Crystal  Hills:  Indian  Tradition  and  Legend. — .Vsceiu 
of  Mount  Washington  by  Darby  Field. — Indian  Name  of  the  White  Moun- 
tains      '  '3 

II.  Jackson  and  the  Ellis  Vallev  :  Thorn  Hill. — Jackson. — Jackson  Falls. 
— Goodrich  Falls. — The  Ellis. — A  Captive  Maiden's  Song. — Pretty  Indian 
Legend. — Pinkham  Notch,  from  the  Ellis. — \  Mountain  Homestead. — .Artist 
Life 122 

III.  The  Carter  Notch:  Valley  of  the  Wildcat. — The  Guide. — The  Way  In. — 

Summit  of  The  Notch. — Awful  Desolation. — The  (Jiant's  Barricade. — Carter 
Dome.— The  Way  Out 132 

IV.  The   Pinkham  jVotch  :    The    Glen    House. —  Thompson's    Falls.  —  Emerald 

Pool. — Crystal  Cascade. — Glen  Ellis  and  its  Legend .     .   144 

V.  A  Scramble  in  Tuckermans  :   Tuckerman's   Ravine. — The    Path. — Hermit 

Lake. — "  Xo  Thoroughfare." — Interior  of  the  Ravine. — The  Snow  .\rch  .     .155 


GENERAL     CONTENTS.  ix 

PAGH 

VI.  Zv  AND  About  Gorham:  The  Peabody  Valley. — Copp's  Farm. — The  Imp. 
— Nathaniel  Copp's  Adventure. — Gorham  and  the  Androscoggin. — Mount 
Hayes. — Mount  Madison. — Wholesale  Destruction  of  the  Forests. — Logging 
in  the  Mountains. — Berlin  Falls. — Shelburne  and  Bethel 165 

VII.  Ascent  by  the  Carriage-road  :  Bruin  and  the  Travellers. — The  Ledge. — 
The  Great  Gulf. — Fatal  Accident. — Lost  Travellers. — Arrival  at  the  .Signal- 
station. — A  Night  on  the  Summit 178 

VIII.  Mount  Washington :  View  from  the  Summit. — The  Great  Gale. — Life  on 
the  Summit.  —  Shadow  of  Mount  Washington.  —  Bigelow's  Lawn.  —  The 
Hunter  Monument. — Lake  of  the  Clouds. — The  Mountain  Butterfly  .     .     .   189 


THIRD   JOURNEY. 

I.  The  Pemigeivasset  in  June  :  Plymouth.  —  Death  of  Hawthorne.  —  John 
Stark,  the  Hunter. — Livermore  Fall. — Trout  and  Salmon  Breeding. — Fran- 
conia  Mountains  from  West  Campion. — Settlement  of  Campton. — Valley  of 
Mad  River. — Tripyramid  Mountain. — Waterville  and  its  Surroundings     .     .  209 

II.  The  Franconia  Pass:  The  Flume  House. — The  Pool.  —  The  Flume. — 
Ascent  of  Mount  Pemigewasset. — The  Basin. —  Mount  Cannon. —  Profile 
Lake. — Old  Man  of  the  Mountain. — Summit  of  the  Pass 224 

III.  The   King   of  Franconia  :    Profile    House    and    Glen. — Eagle    Cliff. — Echo 

Lake. — Ascent   of   Mount   Lafayette. — The    Lakes. —  Singular   Atmospheric 
Effects 237 

IV.  Franconia,  and   the   Neighborhood:    The    Roadside    Spring.  —  Franconia 

Iron  Works  and  Vicinity. — Sugar  Hill 248 

V.  The   Connecticut  Ox-Bow:    Newbury  and  Haverhill 256 


X  GENERAL     CONTEXTS. 


PACK 


VI.  The  Sack  of  St.  Frakcis  De  Sales:  Robert  Rogers,  the  Ranger. — De- 
struction of  the  Abenaqui  Village. — Retreat  and  Pursuit  of  the  Rangers. — 
Legend  of  the  Silver  Image .     .  259 

\'II.  MoosEHiLLOCK :    Ascent    of   the    Mountain    from    Warren.  —  View    from    the 

Summit 267 

VIII.  Bethlehem :  Bethlehem  Street. —  Sudden  Rise  of  a  Mountain  Resort. — The 
Environs.  —  Maplewood  and  the  Great  Range. — The  Place  of  Sunsets. — 
The  "  Hermit." — The  Soldier  turned   Peddler  ...  276 

IX.  Jefeersox,  and  the  Valley  of  Israelis  River:  Jefferson  Hill.  —  Starr 
King  and  Cherry  Mountains. — The  Great  Chain  Again. — Thomas  Starr 
King. — Ethan  Crawford's. — Ravine  of  the  Cascades. — Randolph  Hill  and 
King's  Ravine. — The  Cherry  Mountain  Road. — Fabyan's. — Captain  Rose- 
brook    291 

X.  The  Great  Norther.x  Peaks:  The  Mountain  Railway. — .An  Evening  As- 
cension.— Moonlight  on  the  Summit. — Sunrise.— A  March  to  Mount  Adams. 
— The  Great  Gulf  of  the  Five  Mountains. — The  Castellated  Ridge. — Peak 
of  Mount  Adams. — Conclusion 304 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


These  Illustrations,  excepting  those  marked  *,  were  designed  by  W.  Hamilton  Gibson. 

SUBJECT.  ENGRAVER.                                                                           P.AGE 

Travellers  in  a  Storm,  Mount  Washington  .../?.  Hoskin Frontispiece 

WiNNlPlSEOGEE,  FROM  RED  HiLL J.  Tinkey 15 

*"  Alone  with  all  those  Men!" V.  Bemstrom 20 

Designed  by  IV.  A.  Rogers. 

Passaconnawav,  from  the  Bear-camp  River  .     .     .  Smithunck  and  French    ....    24 

Chocorua R.  Hoskin 26 

Lovewell's  Pond J-  P-  Davis 34 

Mount  Washington,  from  the  Saco F.  S.  Kittg 40 

The  Ledges,  North  Conway F.  Held 41 

Echo  Lake,  North  Conway G.  J.  Biiechncr 45 

Kearsarge  in  Winter R.  Hoskin 48 

♦Sliding  down  Kearsarge H.  Deis 53 

Desifi  tied  by  IV.  A  .  Rogers. 

Conway  Meadows \V.  H.  Morse 56 

Bartlett  Bowlder E.  Held 58 

*Nancy  in  the  Snow 7.  P.  Davis .68 

Designed  by  Sol  Eytinge. 

*Abel  Crawford  (Portrait) Thos.  Johnson 70 

StOrm  on  Mount  Willey J.  Lin/on 75 

Mount  Willard,  from  Willey  Brook G.  Smith 78 

The  Cascades,  Mount  Webster F.  S.  King 85 

Elephant's  Head,  Winter H.  Wolf 88 

Looking  down  The  Notch C.  Mayer 91 

Giant's  Stairs,  from  Thorn  Mountain J.  Hellawell 124 

Moat  Mountain,  from  Jackson  Falls F.  Pettit 126 

The  Carter  Notch Smithwick  and  French    .     .     .     .134 

The  Emerald  Pool \V.  H.  Morse 147 

The  Crystal  Cascade H.  Wolf    .    '. 149 

The  Path.  Tuckerman's  Ravine R.  Hoskin 157 


xii  ILL  US  TR  Alio  NS . 

SUBJECT.  ENGRAVER.                                                                          PACIl 

Hermit  Lake W.J.  Dana 160 

SiVow  Arch.  Tuckerman's  Ravine X.  Orr 163 

The  I.mp •    7-  TiiUry 166 

The  Anuroscoggin  at  Shelburne G.  Smith 176 

Mount  Adams  and  the  Great  Gulf \V.  H.  Morse 182 

Winter  Storm  on  the  Summit A'.  Schelling 187 

*The  Tornado  Forcing  an  Entrance J.  TiiUrv 194 

Designed  by  Thure  de  Thuhtritp. 

Lake  of  the  Ci.ouds J.P.Davis 200 

On  the  Profile  Road Smitlnuick  and  French   ....  213 

Welch  Mountain,  from  Mad  River J.  lldhiwiU 217 

Black  and  Tripvramid  Mountains J.  S.  Harley 220 

Franconia  Notch,  from  Thornton F.  S.  King 222 

A  Glimi'SE  of  the  Pool C.  Mayer 225 

The  Flume.  Franconia  Notch J.  P.  Davis 227 

The  Basin C.J.  lUuchiur 230 

*The  Old  Max  of  the  Mountain A.  Measom 234 

Designed  by  Grttnviile  Perkins. 

♦Eagle  Ci.iff  and  the  Echo  House P.  .Annin 238 

Designed  by  Granville  Perkins. 

Echo  Lake,  Franconia G.J.  Btuchner 240 

Mount  Cannon,  from  the  Bridle-pa  ih,  Lafavette    R.  Schelling 242 

Cloud  Effects  on  Mount  Lafayette R.  Hoskin 245 

*Franconia  Iron  Works  and  Notch C.  Mayer 248 

Designed  by  Granville  Perkins. 

*The  Roadside  Sprinc. 250 

Designed  by  IV.  A .  Rogers. 

♦Robert  Rogers  (Portrait) C.  Mayer 260 

♦The  Buck-board  Wagon 274 

Designed  by  11'.  A.  Rogers. 

Mount  Lafayette,  from  Bethlehem J.  Tinkcy 280 

The  Northern  Peaks,  from  Jefferson Smiihwick  and  French   .    .    .    .292 

Mount  Washington,  from  Fabvan's E.lleld 301 

♦Mountain  Railway-station  in  Staging  Times.    .    T.Johnson 305 

Designed  by  Granville  Pirkins. 

Ascent  uv  iiik  Railway J.  Hellawell 309 

The  Castellated  Ridge,  Mount  Jefferson     .    .    .    J.Tinkey 315 


Map  of  the  White  Mountains  {East  Side) xv 

(Central  and  Northern  Section) m 

(.West  Side) 207 


FIRST    JOURNEY. 


PAGE 

I.   MY    TRAVELLING   COMPANIONS I 

II.   INCOMPARABLE   WINNIPISEOGEE 8 

III.  CHOCORUA i8 

IV.  LOVEWELL 33 

V.    NORTH  CONWAY 39 

VI.   KEARSARGE    TO   CARRIGAIN 55 

VII.    VALLEY  OF    THE  SACO 66 

VIII.    THROUGH   THE  NOTCH 76 

IX.    CRAWFORD'S 87 

X.   ASCENT  FROM  CRAWFORD'S .95 


THE 

HEART  OF  THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS. 


FIRST  JOURNEY. 
I. 

MY    TRAVELLING     COMPANIONS. 
"  Si  jeunesse  savait !  si  viellesse  pouvait !" 

ONE  morning  in  September  I  was  sauntering"  up  and  down  the  rail- 
way-station waiting  for  the  slow  hands  of  the  clock  to  reach  the 
hour  fixed  for  the  departure  of  the  train.  The  fact  that  these  hands 
never  move  backward  did  not  in  the  least  seem  to  restrain  the  impa- 
tience of  the  travellers  thronging  into  the  station,  some  with  happy, 
some  with  anxious  faces,  some  without  trace  of  either  emotion,  yet  all 
betraying  the  same  eagerness  and  haste  of  manner.  All  at  once  I  heard 
my  name  pronounced,  and  felt  a  heavy  hand  upon  my  shoulder. 

"What!"  I  exclaimed,  in  genuine  surprise,  "  is  it  you,  colonel.''" 

"  Myself,"  affirmed  the  speaker,  offering  his  cigar-case. 

"And  where  did  you  drop  from" — accepting  an  Havana;  "the  Blue 
Grass  ?" 

"  I  reckon." 

"  But  what  are  you  doing  in  New  England,  when  you  should  be  in 
Kentucky  ?" 

"  Doing,  I  ?  oh,  well,"  said  my  friend,  with  a  shade  of  constraint ;  then 
with  a  quizzical  smile,  "  You  are  a  Yankee ;  guess." 

"  Take  care." 

"  Guess." 

"  Running  away  from  your  creditors .-'" 

2 


2      THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MO  L  XT  A  INS. 

Tho  colonel's  chin  cut  the  air  contemptuously. 

"  Running  after  a  woman,  perhaps  ?" 

My  companion  quickly  took  the  cigar  from  liis  lips,  looked  at  me 
with  mouth  half  opened,  then  stammered, "  What  in  blue  brimstone  put 
that  into  your  head  ?" 

"  Evidently  you  are  going  on  a  journey,  but  are  dressed  for  an  even- 
ing party,"  I  replied,  comprising  with  a  glance  the  colonel's  black  suit, 
lavender  gloves,  and  white  cravat. 

"  Why,"  said  the  colonel,  glancing  rather  complacently  at  himself  — 
"  why  we  Kentuckians  always  travel  so  at  home.  But  it's  now  your 
turn;  where  are  you  going  yourself.''" 

"  To  the  mountains." 

"Good;  so  am  I:  White  Mountains,  Green  Mountains,  Rocky  Moun- 
tains, or  Mountains  of  the  Moon,  I  care  not." 

"  What  is  your  route  ?" 

"  I'm  not  at  all  familiar  with  the  topography  of  your  mountains. 
What  is  yours  V 

"  By  the  Eastern  to  Lake  Winnipiseogee,  thence  to  Centre  Harbor, 
thence  by  stage  and  rail  to  North  Conway  and  the  White  Mountain 
Notch." 

My  friend  purchased  his  ticket  by  the  indicated  route,  and  the  train 
was  soon  rumbling  over  the  bridges  which  span  the  Charles  and  Mystic. 
Farewell,  Boston,  city  where,  like  thy  railways,  all  extremes  meet,  but 
where  I  would  still  rather  live  on  a  crust  moistened  with  east  wind  than 
cast  mv  lot  elsewhere. 

When  we  had  fairly  emerged  into  the  light  and  sunshine  of  the 
open  country,  I  recognized  my  old  acquaintance  George  Brentwood. 
At  a  gesture  from  me  he  came  and  sat  opposite  to  us. 

George  Brentwood  was  a  blond  young  man  of  thirty-four  or  thirty- 
five,  with  brown  hair,  full  reddish  beard,  shrewdish  blue  eyes,  a  robust 
frame,  and  a  general  air  of  negligent  repose.  In  a  word,  he  was  the 
antipodes  of  my  companion,  whose  hair,  eyebrows,  and  mustache  were 
coal-black,  eyes  dark  and  sparkling,  manner  nervous,  and  his  attitudes 
careless  and  unconstrained,  though  not  destitute  of  a  certain  natural 
srace.     Both  were  men  to  be  remarked  in  a  crowd. 

"  George,"  said  I,  "permit  me  to  introduce  my  friend  Colonel 
Swords." 

After  a  few  civil  questions  and  answers,  George  declared  his  desti- 


MY    TRAVELLING     COMPANIONS.  3 

nation  to  be  ours,  and  was  cordially  welcomed  to  join  us.  By  way  of 
breaking  the  ice,  he  observed, 

"  Apropos  of  your  title,  colonel,  I  presume  you  served  in  the  Rebel- 
lion ?" 

The  colonel  hitched  a  little  on  his  seat  before  replying.  Knowing 
him  to  be  a  very  modest  man,  I  came  to  his  assistance.  "  Yes,"  said  I, 
"  the  colonel  fought  hard  and  bled  freely.  Let  me  see,  where  were  you 
wounded .''" 

"  Through  the  chest." 

"  No,  I  mean  in  what  battle  V 

"  Spottsylvania." 

"  Left  on  the  field  for  dead,  and  taken  prisoner,"  I  finished. 

George  is  a  fellow  of  very  generous  impulses.  "  My  dear  sir,"  said 
he,  effusively,  grasping  the  colonel's  hand,  "  after  what  you  have  suf- 
fered for  the  old  flag,  you  can  need  no  other  passport  to  the  gratitude 
and  friendship  of  a  New-Englander.  Count  me  as  one  of  your  debt- 
oi's.  During  the  war  it  was  my  fortune  —  my  misfortune,  I  should  say 
—  to  be  in  a  distant  country;  otherwise  we  should  have  been  found 
fighting  shoulder  to  shoulder  under  Grant,  or  Sherman,  or  Sheridan,  or 
Thomas. 

The  colonels  color  rose.  He  drew  himself  proudly  up,  cleared  his 
throat,  and  said,  laconically,  "  Hardly,  stranger,  seeing  that  I  had  the 
honor  to  fight  under  the  Confederate  flag." 

You  have  seen  a  tortoise  suddenly  draw  back  into  his  shell.  Well, 
George  as  suddenly  retreated  into  his.  For  an  instant  he  looked  at 
the  Southron  as  one  might  at  a  confessed  murderer;  then  stammered 
out  a  few  random  and  unmeaning  words  about  mistaken  sense  of  duty — 
gallant  but  useless  struggle,  you  know  —  drew  a  newspaper  from  his 
pocket,  and  hid  his  confusion  behind  it. 

Fearing  my  fiery  Kentuckian  might  let  fall  some  unlucky  word  that 
would  act  like  a  live  coal  dropped  on  the  tortoise's  back,  I  hastened  to 
interpose.  "  But  really,  colonel,"  I  urged,  returning  to  the  charge,  "  with 
the  Blue  Ridge  always  at  your  back,  I  wager  you  did  not  come  a 
thousand  miles  merely  to  see  our  mountains.  Come,  what  takes  you 
from  Lexington  V 

"  A  truant  disposition." 

"  Nothing  else  T 

His  dark  face  grew  swarthy,  then   pale.      He  looked   at  me  doubt- 


4  THE     HEART    OF    THE     UJI/TE    MOLWTAIXS. 

fully  a  moment,  and  then  leaned  close  to  my  ear.  "  You  guessed  it,"  he 
whispered. 

"  A  woman .?" 

"Yes;  you  know  that  I  was  taken  prisoner  and  sent  North.  Through 
the  influence  of  a  friend  wiio  liad  known  my  family  before  the  war,  I 
was  allowed  to  pass  my  first  days  of  convalescence  in  a  beautiful  little 
village  in  Berkshire.  There  I  was  cured  of  the  bullet,  but  received  a 
more  mortal  wound." 

"  What  a  misfortune  !" 

"  Yes ;  no ;  confound  you,  let  me  finish." 

"  Helen,  the  daughter  of  the  gentleman  who  procured  my  transfer 
from  the  hospital  to  his  pleasant  home "  (the  proud  Southerner  would 
not  say  his  benefactor),  "  was  a  beautiful  creature.  Let  me  describe  her 
to  you." 

"  Oh,"  I  hastened  to  say,  "  I  know  her."  Like  all  lovers,  that  subject 
might  have  a  beginning  but  no  ending. 

"  You  r 

"  of  course.  Listen.  Yellow  hair,  rippling  ravishingly  from  an  ala- 
baster forehead,  pink  cheeks,  pouting  lips,  dimpled  chin,  snowy  throat — " 

The  colonel  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "  Pshaw,  that's  a  type, 
not  a  portrait.  Well,  the  upshot  of  it  was  that  I  was  exchanged,  and 
ordered  to  report  at  Baltimore  for  transportation  to  our  lines.  Imagine 
my  dismay.  No,  you  can't,  for  I  was  beginning  to  think  she  cared  for 
me,  and  I  was  every  day  getting  deeper  and  deeper  in  love.  But  to  tell 
her !  That  posed  me.  When  alone  with  her,  my  cowardly  tongue  clove 
to  the  roof  of  my  mouth.  Once  or  twice  I  came  very  near  bawling 
out,  '  I  love  you !'  just  as  I  would  have  given  an  order  to  a  squadron  to 
charge  a  battery." 

"  Well ;  but  you  did  propose  at  last  ?" 

"  Oh  yes." 

"  And  was  accepted." 

The  colonel  lowered  his  head,  and  his  face  grew  pinched. 

"  Refused  gently,  but  positively  refused." 

"  Come,"  I  hazarded,  thinking  the  story  ended,"!  do  not  like  your 
Helen." 

"  Why .?" 

"  Because  cither  you  arc  mistaken,  or  she  seems  just  a  little  of  a 
coquette." 


MY    TRAVELLING     COMPANIONS.  5 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know  her,"  said  the  colonel,  warmly ;  "  when  we 
parted  she  betrayed  unusual  agitation — for  her;  but  I  was  cut  to  the 
quick  by  her  refusal,  and  determined  not  to  let  her  see  how  deeply  I 
felt  it.  After  the  Deluge — you  know  what  I  mean — aftc  the  tragedy 
at  Appomattox,  I  went  back  to  the  old  home.  Couldn't  stay  there. 
I  tried  New  Orleans,  Cuba.     No  use." 

Something  rose  in  the  colonel's  throat,  but  he  gulped  it  down  and 
went  on : 

"  The  image  of  that  girl  pursues  me.  Did  you  ever  try  running 
away  from  yourself.''  Well,  after  fighting  it  out  with  myself  until  I 
could  endure  it  no  longer,  I  put  pride  in  my  pocket,  came  straight  to 
Berkshire,  only  to  find  Helen  gone." 

"  That  was  unlucky ;  where  ?" 

"  To  the  mountains,  of  course.  Everybody  seems  to  be  going  there ; 
but  I  shall  find  her." 

"  Don't  be  too  sanguine.  It  will  be  like  looking  for  a  needle  in  a 
hay-stack.  The  mountains  are  a  perfect  Daedalian  labyrinth,"  I  could 
not  help  saying,  in  my  vexation.  Instead  of  an  ardent  lover  of  nature, 
I  had  picked  up  the  "  baby  of  a  girl."  But  there  was  George  Brent- 
wood.    I  went  over  and  sat  by  George. 

It  was  generally  understood  that  George  was  deeply  enamored  of  a 
young  and  beautiful  widow  who  had  long  ceased  to  count  her  love 
affairs,  who  all  the  world,  except  George,  knew  loved  only  herself,  and 
who  had  therefore  nothing  left  worth  mentioning  to  bestow  upon  an- 
other. By  nature  a  coquette,  passionately  fond  of  admiration,  her  self- 
love  was  flattered  by  the  attentions  of  such  a  man  as  George,  and  he, 
poor  fellow,  driven  one  clay  to  the  verge  of  despair,  the  next  intoxicated 
with  the  crumbs  she  threw  him,  was  the  victim  of  a  species  of  slavery 
which  was  fast  undermining  his  buoyant  and  generous  disposition.  The 
colonel  was  in  hot  pursuit  of  his  adored  Helen.  Two  words  sufficed  to 
acquaint  me  that  George  was  escaping  from  his  beautiful  tormentor.  At 
all  events,  I  was  sure  of  him. 

"  How  charming  the  country  is !  What  a  delightful  sense  of  free- 
dom !"  George  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  stretched  his  limbs  luxuriously. 
"  Shall  we  have  an  old-fashioned  tramp  together  ?"  He  continued,  with 
assumed  vivacity,  "  The  deuce  take  me  if  I  go  back  to  town  for  a  twelve- 
month. How  we  creep  along !  I  feel  exultation  in  putting  the  long 
miles  between  me  and  the  accursed  city,"  said  George,  at  last. 


6  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

"  You  exjDerience  no  regret,  then,  at  leaving  the  city  ?" 

George  merely  looked  at  me ;  but  he  could  not  have  spoken  more 
eloquently. 

The  train  had  just  left  Portsmouth,  when  the  conductor  entered  the 
car  holding  aloft  a  yellow  envelope.  Every  eye  was  instantly  riveted 
upon  it.  Conversation  ceased.  For  whom  of  the  fifty  or  sixty  occu- 
pants of  the  car  had  this  flash  overtaken  the  express  train?  In  that 
moment  the  criminal  realized  the  futility  of  flight,  the  merchant  the 
uncertainty  of  his  investments,  the  man  of  leisure  all  the  ordinary  con- 
tingencies of  life.  The  conductor  put  an  end  tt)  the  suspense  by 
demanding, 

"  Is  Mr.  George  Brentwood  in  this  car  ?"' 

In  spite  of  an  heroic  effort  at  self-control,  George's  hand  trembled 
as  he  tore  open  the  envelope ;  but  as  he  read  his  face  became  radiant. 
Had  he  been  alone  I  believe  he  would  have  kissed  the  paper. 
•  "Your  news  is  not  bad.'"'  I  \entured  to  ask,  seeing  him  relapse  into 
a  fit  of  musing,  and  noting  the  smile  tliat  came  and  went  like  a  ripple 
on  still  water. 

"Thank  you,  quite  the  contrary;  but  it  is  important  tliat  I  should 
immediately  return  to  Boston." 

"  How  unfortunate !" 

George  turned  on  me  a  fixed  and  questioning  look,  but  made  no 
reply. 

"  And  the  mountains  T  I  persisted. 

"  Oh,  sink  the  mountains  !" 

I  last  saw  George  striding  impatiently  up  and  down  the  platform  of 
the  Rochester  station,  watch  in  hand.  Without  doubt  he  had  received 
his  recall.     However,  there  was  still  the  lovelorn  colonel. 

Never  have  I  seen  a  man  more  thoroughly  enraptured  witli  the 
growing  beauty  of  the  scenery.  I  promised  myself  much  enjoyment  in 
his  society,  for  his  comments  were  both  original  and  picturesque ;  so 
that  by  the  time  we  arri\ed  at  W'olfborough  I  had  already  forgotten 
George  and  liis  widow. 

There  was  the  usual  throng  of  idlers  lounging  about  the  pier  with 
their  noses  in  the  air,  and  their  hands  in  their  pockets;  perhaps  more 
than  the  usual  confusion,  for  the  steamer  merely  touched  to  take  and 
leave  passengers.  We  went  on  board.  As  the  bell  tolled  the  colonel 
uttered  an  exclamation.     He  became  all  on  a  sudden  transformed  from 


A/V    TRAVELLING     COMPANIONS.  7 

a  passive  spectatur  into  an  excited  and  prominent  actor  in  the  scene. 
He  gesticulated  wildly,  swung  his  hat,  and  shouted  in  a  frantic  way,  ap- 
parently to  attract  the  attention  of  some  one  in  the  crowd  ;  failing  in 
which  he  seized  his  luggage,  took  the  stairs  in  two  steps,  and  darting 
like  a  rocket  among  the  astonished  spectators,  who  divided  to  the  right 
and  left  before  his  impetuous  onset,  was  in  the  act  of  vigorously  shak- 
ing hands  with  a  hale  old  gentleman  of  fifty  odd  when  the  boat  swung 
clear.  He  waved  his  unoccupied  hand,  and  I  saw  his  face  wreathed  in 
smiles.     I  could  not  fail  to  interpret  the  gesture  as  an  adieu. 

"  Halloo  !"  I  shouted,  "  what  of  the  mountains  .'''" 

"  Burn  the  mountains !"  was  his  reply.  The  steamer  glided  swiftly 
down  the  little  bay,  and  I  was  left  to  continue  my  journey  alone. 


THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 


II. 

INCOMPA  RA  BLIL     \V  I N  N I  PI  SEOG  EE. 

First  a  lake 
Tinted  witli  sunset,  next  the  wavy  lines 
Of  far  rccedini;  hills. — WlirrilKR. 

WHEN  the  steamer  glides  out  of  the  land-locked  inlet  at  the  bot- 
tom of  which  Wolfborough  is  situated,  one  of  those  pictures, 
forever  ineffaceable,  presents  itself.  In  effect,  all  the  conditions  of  a 
picture  are  realized.  Here  is  the  shining  expanse  of  the  lake  stretch- 
ing away  in  the  distance,  and  finally  lost  among  tufted  islets  and  foli- 
age-rounded promontories.  To  tlie  right  are  the  Ossipee  mountains, 
dark,  vigorously  outlined,  and  wooded  to  their  summits.  To  the  left, 
more  distant,  rise  the  twin  domes  of  the  Belknap  peaks.  In  front,  and 
closing  the  view,  the  imposing  Sandwich  summits  dominate  the  scene. 

All  these  mountains  seem  advancing  into  the  lake.  They  possess  a 
special  character  of  color,  outline,  or  physiognomy  which  fixes  them  in 
the  memory,  not  confusedl}-,  but  in  the  place  appropriate  to  this  beau- 
tiful picture,  to  its  fine  proportions,  exquisite  harmony,  and  general  effec- 
tiveness. Even  M.  Chateaubriand,  who  maintains  that  mountains  should 
only  be  seen  from  a  distance — even  he  would  have  found  in  W'innipiseo- 
gee  the  perfection  of  his  ideal  mise  eii  scene;  for  here  they  stand  well 
back  from  the  lake,  so  as  to  give  the  best  effect  of  perspective. 

Lovely  as  the  lake  is,  the  eye  will  rove  among  the  mountains  that 
we  have  come  to  see.  They,  and  they  alone,  are  the  objects  which  have 
enticed  us — entice  us  even  now  with  a  charm  and  mystery  that  we  can- 
not pretend  to  explain.  We  do  not  wish  it  explained.  We  know  that 
we  are  as  free,  as  light  of  heart,  as  the  birds  that  skim  the  placid  sur- 
face of  the  lake,  and  coquet  with  their  own  shadows.  The  memory  of 
those  mountains  is  like  snatches  of  music  that  come  unbidden  and  haunt 
you  perpetually. 


INCOMPARABLE     WINNIPIS E  OG E E.  9 

Having  taken  in  the  grander  features,  the  eye  is  occupied  with  its 
details.  We  see  the  lake  quivering  in  sunshine.  From  bold  summit 
to  beautiful  water  the  shores  are  clothed  in  most  vivid  green.  The 
islands,  which  we  believe  to  be  floating  gardens,  are  almost  tropical  in 
the  luxuriance  and  richness  of  their  vegetation.  The  deep  shadows 
they  fling  down  image  each  islet  so  faithfully  that  it  seems,  like  Nar- 
cissus, gloating  over  its  own  beauty.  Here  and  there  a  glimmer  of 
water  through  the  trees  denotes  secluded  little  havens.  Boats  float 
idly  on  the  calm  surface.  Water-fowl  rise  and  beat  the  glossy,  dark 
water  with  startled  wings.  White  tents  appear,  and  handkerchiefs  flut- 
ter from  jutting  points  or  headlands.     Over  all  tower  the  mountains. 

The  steamer  glided  swiftly  and  noiselessly  on,  attended  by  the  echo 
of  her  paddles  from  the  shores.  Dimpled  waves,  parting  from  her  prow, 
rolled  indolently  in,  and  broke  on  the  foam-fretted  rocks.  There  was  a 
warmth  of  color  about  these  rocks,  a  pure  transparency  to  the  water,  a 
brightness  to  the  foliage,  an  invigorating  strength  in  the  mountains  that 
exerted  a  cheerful  influence  upon  our  spirits. 

As  we  advanced  up  the  lake  new  and  rare  vistas  rapidly  succeeded. 
After  leaving  Long  Island  behind,  the  near  ranges  drew  apart,  holding 
us  admiring  and  absorbed  spectators  of  a  moving  panorama  of  distant 
summits.  An  opening  appeared,  through  which  Mount  Washington 
burst  upon  us  blue  as  lapis -lazuli,  a  chaplet  of  clouds  crowning  his 
imperial  front.  Slowly,  majestically,  he  marches  by,  and  now  Chocorua 
scowls  upon  us.  A  murmur  of  admiration  ran  from  group  to  group  as 
these  monumental  figures  were  successively  unveiled.  Men  kept  silence, 
but  women  could  not  repress  the  exclamation,  "  How  beautiful !"  The 
two  grandest  types  which  these  mountains  enclose  were  thus  displayed 
in  the  full  splendor  of  noonday. 

I  should  add  that  those  who  now  saw  Mount  Washington  for  the 
first  time,  and  whose  curiosity  was  whetted  by  the  knowledge  that  it  was 
the  highest  peak  of  the  whole  family  of  mountains,  openly  manifested 
their  disappointment.  That  Mount  Washington !  It  was  in  vain  to 
remind  them  that  the  eye  traversed  forty  miles  in  its  flight  from  lake  to 
summit.  Fault  of  perspective  or  not,  the  mountain  was  not  nearly  so 
high  as  they  imagined.  Chocorua,  on  the  contrary,  with  its  ashen  spire 
and  olive-green  flanks,  realized  more  fully  their  idea  of  a  high  mountain. 
One  was  near,  the  other  far.  Imagination  fails  to  make  a  mountain 
higher  than  it  looks.     The  mind  takes  its  measure  after  the  eye. 


lO  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOL'XTAINS. 

Our  boat  was  now  rapidly  nearing  Centre  Harbor.  On  the  right  its 
progress  gradually  unmasking  the  western  slopes  of  the  Ossipee  range, 
more  fully  opened  the  view  of  Chocorua  and  his  dependent  peaks.  We 
were  looking  in  the  direction  of  Tamworth,  Ossipee,  and  Conway.  Red 
Hill,  a  detached  mountain  at  the  head  of  the  lake,  now  moved  into  the 
gap,  excluding  further  views  of  distant  summits.  Moosehillock,  lofty  but 
unimpressive,  has  for  some  time  showed  its  flattened  heights  over  the 
Sandwich  Mountains,  but  is  now  sinking  behind  thcni.  To  tlie  west, 
thronged  with  islands,  is  the  long  reach  of  water  toward  the  outlet  of 
the  lake  at  Weirs.' 

This  lake  was  the  highway  over  which  Indian  war-parties  advanced 
or  retreated  during  their  predatory  incursions  from  Canada.  Many  caj> 
fives  must  have  crossed  it  whom  its  mountain  walls  seemed  forever  des- 
tined to  separate  from  friends  and  kindred.  The  Indians  who  inhabited 
villages  at  Winnipiseogee  (Weirs),  Ossipee,  and  Pigwacket  (Fryeburg), 
were  hostile ;  and  from  time  to  time  during  the  old  wars  troops  were 
marched  from  the  English  settlements  to  subdue  them.  These  scouting- 
parties  found  the  woods  well  stocked  with  bear,  moose,  and  deer,  and 
the  lake  with  salmon-trout,  some  of  which,  according  to  the  narrative 
before  me,  were  three  feet  long,  and  weighed  twelve  pounds  each. 

Traces  of  Indian  occupation  remained  up  to  the  present  centurv. 
Fishing -weirs  and  woodland  paths  were  frequently  discovered  by  the 
whites ;  but  a  greater  curiosity  than  cither  is  mentioned  by  Dr.  Belknap, 
in  his  "  History  of  New  Hampshire, '  who  there  tells  of  a  pine-tree,  stand- 
ing on  the  shore  of  Winnipiseogee  River,  on  which  was  carved  a  canoe 
with  two  men  in  it,  supposed  to  have  been  a  mark  of  direction  to  those 
who  were  expected  to  follow.  Another  was  a  tree  in  Moultonborough, 
standing  near  a  carrying-place  between  two  ponds.  On  this  tree  was  a 
representation  of  one  of  their  expeditions.  The  number  of  killed  and 
the  prisoners  were  shown  by  rude  drawings  of  human  beings,  the  former 
being  distinguished  by  the  mark  of  a  knife  across  the  throat.  Even 
the  distinction  of  sex  was  preserved  in  the  drawing. 

Centre  Harbor  is  advantageously  situated  for  a  sojourn  more  or  less 
prolonged.  Although  settled  as  early  as  1755,  it  is,  in  common  with  the 
other  lake  towns,  barren  of  history  or  tradition.     Its  greatest  impulse  is, 


'  So  called  from  the  fishing -weirs  of  the  Indians.     The  Indian  name  was  Aquedahtan. 
Here  is  the  Endicott  Rock,  with  an  inscription  made  by  Massachusetts  surveyors  in  1652. 


INCOMPARABLE     WINNIPISEOGEE.  ii 

beyond  question,  the  tide  of  tourists  which  annually  ebbs  and  flows 
among  the  most  sequestered  nooks,  enriching  this  charming  region  like 
an  inundation  of  the  Nile.  An  anecdote  will,  however,  serve  to  illus- 
trate the  character  of  the  men  who  first  subdued  this  wilderness.  Our 
anecdote  represents  its  hero  a  man  of  resources.  His  career  proves 
him  a  man  of  courage.  Although  a  veritable  personage,  let  us  call  him 
General  Hampton. 

The  fact  that  General  Hampton  lived  in  that  only  half-cleared  atmos- 
phere following  the  age  of  credulity  and  superstition,  naturally  accounts 
for  the  extraordinary  legend  concerning  him  which,  for  the  rest,  had  its 
origin  among  his  own  friends  and  neighbors,  who  merely  shared  the 
general  belief  in  the  practice  of  diabolic  arts,  through  compacts  with  the 
arch-enemy  of  mankind  himself,  universally  prevailing  in  that  day — yes, 
prevailing  all  over  Christendom.  By  a  mere  legend,  we  are  thus  able 
to  lay  hold  of  the  thread  which  conducts  us  back  through  the  dark  era 
of  superstition  and  delusion,  and  which  is  now  so  amazing. 

The  general,  says  the  legend,  encountered  a  far  more  notable  adver- 
sary than  Abenaki  warriors  or  conjurers,  among  whom  he  had  lived, 
and  whom  it  was  the  passion  of  his  life  to  exterminate. 

In  an  evil  hour  his  yearning  to  amass  wealth  suddenly  led  him  to  de- 
clare that  he  would  sell  his  soul  for  the  possession  of  unbounded  riches. 
Think  of  the  devil,  and  he  is  at  your  elbow.  The  fatal  declaration  was 
no  sooner  made — the  general  was  sitting  alone  by  his  fireside — than  a 
shower  of  sparks  came  down  the  chimney,  out  of  which  stepped  a  man 
dressed  from  top  to  toe  in  black  velvet.  The  astonished  Hampton 
noticed  that  the  stranger's  rufifles  were  not  even  smutted. 

"  Your  servant,  general,"  quoth  the  stranger,  suavely,  "  but  let  us 
make  haste,  if  you  please,  for  I  am  expected  at  the  governor's  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,"  he  added,  picking  up  a  live  coal  with  his  thumb 
and  forefinsfer  and  consultina;  his  watch  with  it. 

The  general's  wits  began  to  desert  him.  Portsmouth  was  five 
leagues,  long  ones  at  that,  from  Hampton  House,  and  his  strange  visitor 
talked,  with  the  utmost  unconcern,  of  getting  there  in  fifteen  minutes. 
His  astonishment  caused  him  to  stammer  out, 

"  Then  you  must  be  the — " 

"  Tush !  what  signifies  a  name  ?"  interrupted  the  stranger,  with  a 
deprecating  wave  of  the  hand.  "  Come,  do  we  understand  each  other .'' 
is  it  a  barcrain  or  not .'" 


12  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

At  the  talismanic  word  "  bargain "  the  general  pricked  up  his  ears. 
He  had  often  been  heard  to  say  that  neither  man  nor  devil  could  get 
the  better  of  him  in  a  trade.  He  took  out  his  jack-knife  and  began  to 
whittle.     The  devil  took  out  his,  and  began  to  pare  his  nails. 

"But  what  proof  ha\e  I  that  you  can  perform  what  you  promise.'" 
demanded  Hampton,  pursing  up  his  mouth,  and  contracting  his  bushy 
eyebrows. 

The  fiend  ran  his  fingers  carelessly  through  his  peruke;  a  shower 
of  golden  guineas  fell  to  the  floor,  and  rolled  to  the  four  corners  of  the 
room.  The  general  quickly  stooped  to  pick  up  one;  but  no  sooner  had 
his  fingers  closed  upon  it  than  he  uttered  a  yell.      It  was  red-hot. 

The  devil  chuckled.     "  Try  again,"  he  said. 

But  Hampton  shook  his  head,  and  retreated  a  step. 

"  Don't  be  afraid." 

Hampton  cautiously  touched  a  coin.  It  was  cool.  He  weighed  it  in 
his  hand,  and  rung  it  on  the  table.  It  was  full  weight  and  true  rintr. 
Then  he  went  down  on  his  hands  and  knees,  and  began  to  gather  up 
the  guineas  with  feverish  haste. 

"Are  you  satisfied.''"  demanded  Satan. 

"Completely,  your  majesty." 

"  Then  to  business.  By-the-way,  have  you  anything  to  drink  in  the 
house  ?" 

"  There  is  some  Old  Jamaica  in  the  cupboard." 

"  Excellent.  I  am  as  thirsty  as  a  Puritan  on  election-day,"  said  the 
devil,  seating  himself  at  the  table  and  negligently  flinging  his  mantle 
back  over  his  shoulder. 

Hampton  brought  a  decanter  and  a  couple  of  glasses  from  the  cup- 
board, filled  one  and  passed  it  to  his  infernal  guest,  who  tasted  it,  and 
smacked  his  lips  with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur.  Hampton  watched  every 
gesture.  "Does  your  excellency  not  find  it  to  his  taste.'"  he  ventured 
to  ask. 

"  H'm,  I  have  drunk  worse;  but  let  me  show  you  how  to  make  a 
salamander,"  replied  Satan,  touching  the  lighted  end  of  the  taper  to  the 
liquor,  which  instantly  burst  into  a  spectral  blue  flame.  The  fiend  then 
raised  the  tankard,  glanced  approvingly  at  the  blaze — which  to  Hamp- 
ton's disordered  intellect  resembled  an  adders  forked  and  agile  tongue 
—  nodded,  and  said,  patronizingly,  "  To  our  better  acquaintance."  He 
then  quaffed  the  contents  at  a  single  gulp. 


INC OMr ARABLE     W I N N I P I S E  O  G E E .  13 

Hampton  shuddered.  Tliis  was  not  the  way  he  had  been  used  to 
seeing  healths  drunk.  He  pretended,  however,  to  drink,  for  fear  of  giv- 
ing offence,  but  somehow  the  liquor  choked  him.  The  demon  set  down 
the  tankard,  and  observed,  in  a  matter-of-fact  way  that  put  his  listener  in 
a  cold  sweat, 

"  Now  that  you  are  convinced  I  am  able  to  make  you  the  richest 
man  in  all  the  province,  listen.  In  consideration  of  your  agreement, 
duly  signed  and  sealed,  to  deliver  your  soul"  —  here  he  drew  a  parch- 
ment from  his  breast — "  I  engage,  on  my  part,  on  the  first  clay  of  every 
month,  to  fill  your  boots  with  golden  elephants  like  these  before  you. 
But  mark  me  well,"  said  Satan,  holding  up  a  forefinger  glittering  with 
diamonds ;  "  if  you  try  to  play  me  any  trick  you  will  repent  it.  I  know 
you,  Jonathan  Hampton,  and  shall  keep  my  eye  upon  you.     So  beware  !" 

Hampton  flinched  a  little  at  this  plain  speech ;  but  a  thought  seemed 
to  strike  him,  and  he  brightened  up.  Satan  opened  the  scroll,  smoothed 
out  the  creases,  dipped  a  pen  in  the  inkhorn  at  his  girdle,  and  pointing 
to  a  blank  space  said,  laconically,  "  Sign  !" 

Hampton  hesitated. 

"  If  you  are  afraid,"  sneered  Satan,  "  why  put  me  to  all  this  trouble .''" 
And  he  began  to  put  the  gold  in  his  pocket. 

His  victim  seized  the  pen,  but  his  hand  shook  so  he  could  not  write. 
He  gulped  down  a  swallow  of  rum,  stole  a  look  at  his  infernal  guest, 
who  nodded  his  head  by  way  of  encouragement,  and  a  second  time  ap- 
proached his  pen  to  the  paper.  The  struggle  was  soon  over.  The  un- 
happy Hampton  wrote  his  name  at  the  bottom  of  the  fatal  list,  which  he 
was  astonished  to  see  numbered  some  of  the  highest  personages  in  the 
province.     "  I  shall  at  least  be  in  good  company,"  he  muttered. 

"Good!"  said  Satan,  rising  and  putting  the  scroll  carefully  within 
his  breast.  "  Rely  on  me,  general,  and  be  sure  you  keep  faith.  Remem- 
ber!" So  saying,  the  demon  waved  his  hand,  wrapped  his  mantle  about 
him,  and  vanished  up  the  chimney. 

Satan  performed  his  part  of  the  contract  to  the  letter.  On  the  first 
day  of  every  month  the  boots,  which  were  hung  on  the  crane  in  the 
fireplace  the  night  before,  were  found  in  the  morning  stuffed  full  of 
guineas.  It  is  true  that  Hampton  had  ransacked  the  village  for  the 
largest  pair  to  be  found,  and  had  finally  secured  a  brace  of  trooper's 
boots,  which  came  up  to  the  wearer's  thigh ;  but  the  contract  merely 
expressed  boots,  and  the  devil  does  not  stand  upon  trifles. 


14  THE     HEART     OE     THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

Hampton  rolled  in  wealth.  Everything  prospered.  His  neighbors 
regarded  him  first  with  envy,  then  with  aversion,  at  last  with  fear.  Not 
a  few  affirmed  he  had  entered  into  a  league  with  the  Evil  One.  Others 
shook  their  heads,  saying,  "  What  does  it  signify.^  that  man  would  out- 
wit the  devil  himself." 

Hut  one  morning,  when  the  fiend  came  as  usual  to  fill  the  boots, 
what  was  his  astonishment  to  find  that  he  could  not  fill  them.  He 
poured  in  the  guineas,  but  it  was  like  pouring  water  into  a  rat -hole. 
The  more  he  put  in,  the  more  the  quantity  seemed  to  diminish.  In 
vain  he  persisted :  the  boots  could  not  be  filled. 

The  devil  scratched  his  ear.  "  I  must  look  into  this,"  he  reflected. 
No  sooner  said  than  he  attempted  to  descend,  but  found  his  ]:)rogress 
suddenly  arrested.  The  chimney  was  choked  up  with  guineas.  Foam- 
ing with  rage,  the  demon  tore  the  boots  from  the  crane.  The  craftv 
general  had  cut  off  the  soles,  leaving  only  the  legs  for  the  devil  to  fill. 
The  chamber  was  knee-deep  with  gold. 

TJie  devil  gave  a  horrible  grin,  and  disappeared.  The  same  night 
Hampton  House  was  burnt  to  the  ground,  the  general  only  escaping 
in  his  shirt.  He  had  been  dreaming  he  was  dead  and  in  hell.  His 
precious  guineas  were  secreted  in  the  wainscot,  the  ceiling,  and  other 
hiding-places  known  only  to  himself.  He  blasphemed,  wept,  and  tore 
his  hair.  Suddenly  he  grew  calm.  After  all,  the  loss  was  not  irrejjara- 
ble,  he  reflected.  Gold  would  melt,  it  is  true;  but  he  would  find  it  all, 
of  course  he  would,  at  daybreak,  run  into  a  solid  lump  in  the  cellar — 
every  guinea.     That  is  true  of  ordinary  gold. 

The  general  worked  with  the  energy  of  despair  clearing  away  the 
rubljish.  He  refused  all  offers  of  assistance:  he  dared  not  accept  them. 
Hut  tJic  gold  had  vanished.  Whether  it  was  reallv  consumed,  or  liad 
passed  again  into  the  massy  entrails  of  the  earth,  will  never  be  known. 
It  is  certain  that  every  vestige  of  it  had  disappeared. 

When  the  general  died  and  was  buried,  strange  rumors  began  to 
circulate.  To  quiet  them,  the  grave  was  opened;  but  when  the  lid  was 
removed  from  the  coffin,  it  was  found  to  be  empty. 

Having  reached  Centre  Harbor  at  two  in  the  afternoon,  there  was 
still  time  to  ascend  Red  Hill  before  sunset.  This  eminence  would  be 
called  a  mountain  anywhere  else.  Its  altitude  is  inconsiderable,  but  its 
situation  at  the  head  of  the  lake,  on  its  very  borders,  is  highly  favora- 
ble to  a  commanding  prospect  of  the  surrounding  lake  region.      There 


INC  O  MP  A  RABLE     W I N  N I P I S  EOGEE. 


WIN.NIPISEOGEE   FROM 
RED   HILL. 


are    two   summits,  the   north-       ^ 
crn  and  highest  being  only  a 
Httlc   more  than  two  thousand 
feet. 

For    such    an    excursion   Httk 
preparation  is  necessary.     In  fact  a  caiiiagc 
road  ascends  within  a  mile  of  the   supeiioi   s^um  "■,.,  1 

mit ;    and  from  this   point  the   path   is   one   of  the 

easiest   I  have  ever  traversed.      The   value   of  a  pure  atmosphere  is  so 
well  understood  by  every  mountain  tourist  that  he   will  neglect  no  op- 


l6  THE     HEART    OE    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

portunity  which  tliis  thrice-fickle  element  offers  him.  This  was  a  day 
of  days. 

After  a  little  promenade  of  two  hours,  or  two  hours  and  a  half,  I 
reached  the  cairn  on  the  summit,  from  which  a  tattered  sitrnal-flat;  flut- 
tered  in  the  breeze.  Without  extravagance,  the  view  is  one  of  the  most 
engaging  that  the  eye  ever  looked  upon.  I  had  before  me  that  beau- 
tiful valley  extending  between  the  Sandwich  chain  on  the  left  and  the 
Ossipec  range  on  the  right,  the  distance  filled  by  a  background  of  moun- 
tains. It  was  across  this  valley  that  we  saw  Mount  Washington,  while 
coming  up  the  lake.      But  that  noble  peak  was  now  hid. 

The  first  chain  trendina:  to  the  west  threw  one  frieantic  arm  around 
the  beautiful  little  Squam  Lake,  which  like  a  magnificent  gem  sparkled 
at  my  feet.  The  second  stretched  its  huge  rampart  along  the  eastern 
shores  of  Winnipiseogee. 

The  surface  of  this  valley  is  tumbled  about  in  most  charming  dis- 
order. Three  villaQ;es  crowned  as  man\'  eminences  in  the  foreefround ; 
three  little  lakes,  half  hid  in  the  middle  distance,  blue  as  turquoise, 
lighted  the  fading  hues  of  field  and  forest.  Hamlets  and  farms,  groves 
and  forests  innumerable,  were  .scattered  broadcast  over  this  inviting  land- 
scape. The  harvests  were  gathered,  and  the  mellowed  tints  of  green, 
orange,  and  gold  resembled  rich  old  tapestry.  Men  and  animals  looked 
like  insects  creeping  along  the  roads. 

From  this  ]K)int  of  view  the  Sandwich  Mountains  took  far  greater 
interest  and  character,  and  I  remarked  that  no  two  summits  were  pre- 
cisely alike  in  form  or  outline.  Higher  and  more  distant  peaks  jjcered 
curiously  over  their  brawny  shoulders  from  their  lairs  in  the  valley  of 
the  Pemigewasset ;  but  more  remarkable,  more  weird  than  all,  was  the 
gigantic  monolith  which  tops  the  rock-ribbed  pile  of  Chocorua.  The 
more  I  looked,  the  more  this  monstrous  freak  of  nature  fascinated.  As 
the  sun  glided  down  the  west,  a  ruddy  glow  tinged  its  pinnacle  ;  while 
the  shadows  lurking  in  the  ravines  stole  u\)  the  mountain  side  and 
crouched  for  a  final  spring  upon  the  summit.  Little  by  little,  twilight 
flowed  over  the  valley,  and  a  thin  haze  rose  from  its  surface. 

I  had  waited  for  this  moment,  and  now  turned  to  the  lakes.  Win- 
nipiseogee was  visible  throughout  its  whole  length,  the  multitude  of 
islands  peeping  above  it  giving  the  idea  of  an  inundation  rather  than 
an  inland  sea.  On  the  farthest  shores  mere  specks  of  white  denoted 
houses ;  and  traced  in  faint  relief  on  the  southern  sky,  so  unsubstantial, 


INCOMPARABLE     WINNIPI SEOGEE.  17 

indeed,  as  to  render  it  doubtful  if  it  were  sky  or  mountain,  was  the 
Grand  Monadnoclc,  the  fixed  sentinel  of  all  this  august  assemblage  of 
mountains. 

Glowing  in  sunset  splendor,  streaked  with  all  the  hues  of  the  rain- 
bow, the  lake  was  indeed  magnificent. 

In  vain  the  eye  roved  hither  and  thither  seeking  some  foil  to  this 
peerless  beauty.  Everywhere  the  same  unrivalled  picture  led  it  captive 
over  thirty  miles  of  gleaming  water,  up  the  graceful  curves  of  the  moun- 
tains, to  rest  at  last  among  crimson  clouds  floating  in  rosy  vapor  over 
their  notched  summits. 

Imagination  must  assist  the  reader  to  reproduce  this  ravishing  spec- 
tacle. To  attempt  to  describe  it  is  like  a  profanation.  Paradise  seemed 
to  have  opened  wide  its  gates  to  my  enraptured  gaze ;  or  had  I  surprised 
the  secrets  of  the  unknown  world }  I  stood  silent  and  spellbound,  with 
a  strange,  exquisite  feeling  at  the  heart.  I  felt  a  thrill  of  pain  when 
a  voice  from  the  forest  broke  the  solemn  stillness  which  alone  befitted 
this  almost  supernatural  vision.  Now  I  understood  the  pagans  adora- 
tion of  the  sun.  My  mind  ran  over  the  most  striking  or  touching  inci- 
dents of  Scripture,  where  the  sublimity  of  the  scene  is  always  in  har- 
mony with  the  grandeur  of  the  event — the  Temptation,  the  Sermon  on 
the  Mount,  the  Transfiguration — and  memory  brought  to  my  aid  these 
words,  so  simple,  so  tender,  yet  so  expressive,  "  And  he  went  up  into  the 
mountain  to  pray,  himself,  alone." 


1 8  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 


111. 
CHOCORUA. 

"  There  I  saw  above  me  mountains. 
And  I  asked  of  them  what  century 
Met  them  in  their  youth." 

AFTER  a  stay  at  Centre  Harbor  long  enough  to  gain  a  knowledge 
of  its  charming  environs,  but  which  seemed  all  too  brief,  I  took  the 
stase  at  two  o'clock  one  sunny  afternoon  for  Tamworth.  I  had  re- 
solved,  if  the  following  morning  should  be  clear,  to  ascend  Chocorua, 
which  fniiii  the  summit  of  Red  Hill  seemed  to  fling  his  defiance  from 
afar. 

Following  my  custom,  I  took  an  outside  seat  with  the  driver.  There 
being  only  three  or  four  passengers,  what  is  frequently  a  bone  of  conten- 
tion was  settled  without  that  display  of  impudent  selfishness  which  is 
seen  when  a  dozen  or  more  travellers  are  all  struggling  for  precedence. 
But  at  the  steamboat  landing  the  case  was  different.  I  remained  a 
quiet  looker-on  of  the  scene  that  ensued.     It  was  sufficiently  ridiculous. 

At  the  moment  the  steamboat  touched  her  pier  the  passengers  pre- 
pared to  spring  to  the  shore,  and  force  had  to  be  used  to  keep  them 
back  until  she  could  be  secured.  An  instant  after  the  crowd  rushed 
pell-mell  up  the  wharf,  surrounded  the  stage,  and  began,  women  as  well 
as  men,  a  promiscuous  scramble  for  the  two  or  three  unoccupied  seats 
at  the  top. 

Two  men  and  one  woman  succeeded  in  obtaining  the  prizes.  'I  he 
woman  interested  me  by  the  intense  triumph  that  sparkled  in  her  black 
eyes  and  glowed  on  her  cheeks  at  having  distanced  several  competitor^ 
of  her  own  sex,  to  say  nothing  of  the  men.  She  beamed !  As  I  made 
room  for  her,  she  said,  with  a  toss  of  the  head,  "  I  guess  I  haven't  been 
through  Lake  George  for  nothing." 

Crack !     We   were  jolting  along   the   road,  around   the   base  of    Red 


CHOCORUA.  19 

Hill,  the  horses  stepping  briskly  out  at  the  driver's  chirrup,  the  coach 
pitching  and  lurching  like  a  gondola  in  a  sea.  What  a  sense  of  exhila- 
ration, of  lightness !  The  air  so  pure  and  clastic,  the  odor  of  the  pines 
so  fragrant,  so  invigorating,  which  we  breathe  with  all  the  avidity  of  a 
convalescent  who  for  the  first  time  crosses  the  threshold  of  his  chamber. 
Each  moment  I  felt  my  body  growing  lighter.  A  delicious  sense  of  self- 
ownership  breaks  the  chain  binding  us  to  the  toiling,  struggling,  worry- 
ing life  we  have  left  behind.  We  carry  our  world  with  us.  Life  begins 
anew,  or  rather  it  has  only  just  begun. 

The  view  of  the  rans:es  which  on  either  side  elevate  two  immense 
walls  of  green  is  kept  for  nearly  the  whole  distance.  As  we  climb  the 
hill  into  Sandwich,  Mount  Israel  is  the  prominent  object ;  then  brawny 
Whiteface,  Passaconnaway's  pyramid,  Chocoruas  mutilated  spire  ad- 
vance, in  their  turn,  into  line.  Sometimes  we  were  in  a  thick  forest, 
sometimes  on  a  broad,  sunny  glade ;  now  threading  our  way  through 
groves  of  pitch-pine,  now  winding  along  the  banks  of  the  Bear- Camp 
River. 

The  views  of  the  mountains,  as  the  afternoon  wore  away,  grew  more 
and  more  interesting.  The  ravines  darkened,  the  summits  brightened. 
Cloud -shadows  chased  each  other  up  and  down  the  steeps,  or,  flitting 
slowly  across  the  valley,  spread  thick  mantles  of  black  that  seemed 
to  deaden  the  sound  of  our  wheels  as  we  jDassed  over  them.  On  one 
side  all  was  light,  on  the  other  all  gloom.  But  the  landscape  is  not  all 
that  may  be  seen  to  advantage  from  the  top  of  a  stage-coach'. 

From  time  to  time,  as  something  provoked  an  exclamation  of  sur- 
prise or  pleasure,  certain  of  the  inside  occupants  manifested  open  dis- 
content. They  were  losing  something  where  they  had  expected  to  see 
everything. 

While  the  horses  were  being  changed,  one  of  the  insides,  I  need 
not  say  it  was  a  woman,  thrust  her  head  out  of  the  window,  and  ad- 
dressed the  young  person  perched  like  a  bird  upon  the  highest  seat. 
Her  voice  was  soft  and  persuasive : 

"  Miss !" 
,       "  Madam !" 

"  I'm  so  afraid  you  find  it  too  cold  up  there.  Sha'n't  I  change  places 
with  you  T 

The  little  one  gave  her  voice  a  droll  inflection  as  she  briskly  replied, 
"  Oh  dear  no,  thank  you ;   I'm  very  comfortable  indeed." 


20 


THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAIXS. 


"  But,"  urged  the  other,  "  you  don't  look  strong ;  indeed,  dear,  you 
don't.  Aren't  you  very,  very  tired,  sitting  so  long  without  any  support 
to  your  back  ?" 

"  Thanks,  no ;  my  spine  is  the  strongest  part  of  me." 
"  But,"  still  persisted  the   inside,  changing  her  voice  to  a  loud  whis- 
per, "  to  be  sitting  alone  with  all  those  men !" 


"  ALONK   WITH    AI.l.   Tllusi;   Mi;.N  ! 


"  They  mind  their  business,  and  I  mind  mine,"  said  the  little  one,  red- 
dening;"  besides,"  slie  c|uickly  added,  "you  proposed  changing  places,  I^ 
believe !" 

"  Oh !"  returned  the  other,  with  an  accent  impossible  to  convey  in 
words,  "if  you  like  it." 

"  I    tell    you    what,   ma'am,"  snapped    the    one    in    possession,  "  I've 


CHOCORUA.  21 

been  all  over  Europe  alone,  and  was  never  once  insulted  except  by  per- 
sons of  my  own  sex." 

This  home -thrust  ended  the  colloquy.  The  first  speaker  quickly 
drew  in  her  head,  and  I  remarked  a  general  twitching  of  muscles  on  the 
faces  around  me.  The  driver  shook  his  head  in  silent  glee.  The  little 
woman's  eyes  emitted  sparks. 

From  West  Ossipee  I  drove  over  to  Tamworth  Iron  Works,  where  I 
passed  the  night,  and  where  I  had,  so  to  speak,  Chocorua  under  my  thumb. 

This  mountain  being  the  most  proper  for  a  legend,  it  accordingly 
has  one.     Here  it  is  in  all  its  purity: 

After  the  terrible  battle  in  which  the  Sokokis  were  nearly  destroyed, 
a  remnant  of  the  tribe,  with  their  chief,  Chocorua,  fled  into  the  fast- 
nesses of  these  mountains,  where  the  foot  of  a  white  man  had  never 
intruded.  Here  they  trapped  the  beaver,  speared  the  salmon,  and  hunt- 
ed the  moose. 

The  survivors  of  Lovewell's  band  brought  the  first  news  of  their  dis- 
aster to  the  settlements.  More  like  spectres  than  living  men,  their  hag- 
gard looks,  bloodshot  eyes,  and  shaking  limbs,  their  clothing  hanging 
about  them  in  shreds,  announced  the  hardships  of  that  long  and  terrible 
march  but  too  plainly. 

Among  those  who  had  set  out  with  the  expedition  were  three  broth- 
ers— one  a  mere  stripling,  the  others  famous  hunters.  The  eldest  of  the 
three,  having  fallen  lame  on  the  second  day,  was  left  behind.  His 
brethren  would  have  conducted  him  back  to  the  nearest  village,  but  he 
promptly  refused  their  proffered  aid,  saying, 

"  Tis  enough  to  lose  one  man ;  three  are  too  many.  Go ;  do  my 
part  as  w^ell  as  your  own." 

The  two  had  gone  but  a  few  steps  when  the  disabled  ranger  called 
the  second  brother  back. 

"  Tom,"  said  the  elder,  "  take  care  of  our  brother." 

"  Surely,"  replied  the  other,  in  some  surprise.     "  Surely,"  he  repeated. 

"  I  charge  you,"  continued  the  first  speaker,  "  watch  over  the  boy  as 
I  would  myself." 

"  Never  fear,  Lance ;  whatever  befalls  Hugh  happens  to  me." 

"  Not  so,"  said  the  other,  with  energy ;  "  you  must  die  for  him,  if 
need  be." 

"  They  shall  chop  me  as  fine  as  sausage-meat  before  a  hair  of  the 
lad's  head  is  harmed." 


22  THE    HEART    OE    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

"  God  bless  you,  Tom !"     The  brothers  then  embraced  and  separated. 

"What  was  our  brother  saying  to  you?"  demanded  the  younger, 
when   Tom  rejoined  him. 

"  He  begged  me,  seeing  he  could  not  go  with  us,  to  shoot  two  or 
three  redskins  for  him ;  and  I  promised."  The  two  then  quickened 
their  pace  in  order  to  overtake  their  comrades. 

Amonfj  those  who  succeeded  in  regaining  the  settlements  was  a  man 
who  had  been  wounded  in  twentj"  places.  He  was  at  once  a  ghastly 
and  a  pitiful  object.  Faint  with  hunger,  fatigue,  and  loss  of  blood,  he 
reeled,  fell,  slowly  rose  to  his  feet,  and  sunk  lifeless  at  the  entrance  to 
the  village.     This  time  he  did  not  rise  again. 

A  crowd  ran  up.  When  they  had  wiped  the  blood  and  dirt  from  the 
dead  man's  face,  a  by-stander  threw  himself  upon  the  body  with  the  cry, 
"  My  God,  it  is  Tom !" 

The  following  day  the  surviving  brother  joined  a  strong  party  de- 
spatched by  the  colonial  authorities  to  the  scene  of  Lovewell's  en- 
counter, where  they  arrived  after  a  forced  march.  Here,  among  the 
trampled  thickets,  they  found  the  festering  corpses  of  the  slain.  Among 
them  was  Hugh,  the  younger  brother.  He  was  riddled  with  bullets  and 
shockingly  mangled.  Up  to  this  moment.  Lance  had  hoped  against 
hope;  now  the  dread  reality  stared  him  in  the  face.  The  stout  ranger 
grew  white,  his  fingers  convulsively  clutciied  the  barrel  of  his  gun,  and 
something  like  a  curse  escaped  through  his  clinched  teeth ;  then,  kneel- 
ing beside  the  body,  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  Hugh's  blood  cried 
aloud  for  vengeance. 

Thorough  but  una\ailing  search  was  made  for  the  savages.  They 
had  disappeared,  after  applying  the  torch  to  their  village.  Silently  and 
sadly  the  rangers  performed  the  last  service  for  their  fallen  comrades, 
and  then,  turning  their  backs  uj^on  the  mountains,  commenced  their 
march  homeward. 

The  ne.xt  day  the  absence  of  Lance  was  remarked ;  but,  as  he  was 
their  best  hunter,  the  rangers  made  no  doubt  he  would  rejoin  them  at 
the  next  halt. 

Chocorua  was  not  ignorant  that  the  English  were  near.  Like  the 
vulture,  he  scented  danger  from  afar.  From  the  summit  of  the  mountain 
he  had  watched  the  smoke  of  the  hostile  camp-fires  stealing  above  the 
forest.  The  remainder  of  the  tribe  had  buried  themselves  still  deeper 
in  the  wilderness.     They  were  too  few  for  attack,  too  weak  for  defence. 


CHOCORUA. 


23 


One  morning  the  chief  ascended  the  pinnacle,  and  swept  the  horizon 
with  his  piercing  eye.  Far  in  the  south  a  faint  smoke  told  where  the 
foe  had  pitched  his  last  encampment.  Chocorua's  dark  eye  lighted  with 
exultation.     The  accursed  pale-faces  were  gone. 

He  turned  to  descend  the  mountain,  but  had  not  taken  ten  steps 
when  a  white  hunter,  armed  to  the  teeth,  started  from  behind  the  craes 
and  barred  his  passage.  '  The  chief  recoiled,  but  not  with  fear,  as  the 
muzzle  of  his  adversary's  weapon  touched  his  naked  breast.  The  white 
man's  eyes  shone  with  deadly  purpose,  as  he  forced  the  chieftain,  step 
by  step,  back  to  the  highest  point  of  the  mountain.  Chocorua  could  not 
pass  except  over  the  hunter's  dead  body. 

Glaring  into  each  other's  eyes  with  mortal  hate,  the  two  men  reached 
the  summit. 

"  Chocorua  will  go  no  farther,"  said  the  chief,  haughtily. 

The  white  man  trembled  with  excitement.  For  a  moment  he  could 
not  speak.  Then,  in  a  voice  husky  with  suppressed  emotion,  he  ex- 
claimed, 

"  Die,  then,  like  a  dog,  thou  destroyer  of  my  family,  thou  incarnate 
devil !  The  white  man  has  been  in  Chocorua's  wigwam ;  has  counted 
their  scalps — father,  mother,  sister,  brother.  He  has  tracked  him  to  the 
mountain-top.     Now^  demon  or  devil,  Chocorua  dies  by  my  hand." 

The  chief  saw  no  escape.  He  comprehended  that  his  last  moment 
was  come.  As  if  all  the  savage  heroism  of  his  race  had  come  to  his 
aid,  he  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  and  stood  erect  and  motion- 
less as  a  statue  of  bronze  upon  the  enormous  pedestal  of  the  mountain. 
His  dark  eye  blazed,  his  nostrils  dilated,  the  muscles  of  his  bronzed  fore- 
head stood  out  like  whip-cord.  The  black  eagle's  feather  in  his  scalp- 
lock  fluttered  proudly  in  the  cool  morning  breeze.  He  stood  thus  for  a 
moment  looking  death  sternly  in  the  face,  then,  raising  his  bared  arm 
with  a  gesture  of  superb  disdain,  he  spoke  with  energy: 

"Chocorua  is  unarmed;  Chocorua  will  die.  His  heart  is  bic  and 
strong  with  the  blood  of  the  accursed  pale-face.  He  laughs  at  death. 
He  spits  in  the  white  man's  face.  Go;  tell  your  warriors  Chocorua 
died  like  a  chief !" 

With  this  defiance  on  his  lips  the  chief  sprung  from  the  brink  into 
ftie  unfathomable  abyss  below.  An  appalling  crash  was  followed  by  a 
death-like  silence.  As  soon  as  he  recovered  from  his  stupor  the  hunter 
ran  to  the  verge  of  the  precipice  and  looked  over.     A  horrible  fascina- 


24 


THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 


'O'^ 


s'  -^-? 


I'ASSACO.NNAWAy  FROM   THE    Ill'.AR- 
CAMP   RIVER. 


tion  liL'ld  him  an  instant.     Then, 
shouldL'iing"  his  gun,  he  retraced  his  steps  down 
the  mountain,  and  the  next  day  rejoined  his  comrades. 

riie  general  and  front  views  of  the  Sandwich  group,  which  may  be 
liad  in  perfection  from  tlic  hill  behind  the  Chocorua  House,  or  from  the 
opposite  elevation,  are  very  striking,  embracing  as  they  do  the  principal 
summits  from  Chocorua  to  the  heavy  mass  of  Black  Mountain.  There 
are  more  distinct  traits,  perhaps,  embodied  in  this  range  than  in  any 
other  among  the  White  Hills,  except  that  incomparable  band  of  peaks 
constituting  the  northern  half  of  the  great  chain  itself.  There  seems, 
too,  a  special  fitness  in  designating  these  mountains  by  their  Indian 
titles  —  Chocorua,  Paugus,  Passaconnawav,  Wonnalancet  —  a  group  of 
great  sagamores,  wild,  grand,  picturesque.' 


'  No  tradition  attaches  to  the  last  three  f)caks.     Passaconnaway  was  a  great  chieftain  and 

conjurer  (jf  the  Pennacoolcs.     It  is  of  liim  the  pod  Whillicr  writes: 

Burned  for  him  the  drifled  snow, 
Bade  through  ice  fresh  lihcs  blow. 
And  the  leaves  of  summer  glow 
Over  winter's  wood. 

This  noted  patriarch  and  necromancer,  in  whose  arts  not  only  the  Indians  but  the  EngHsh 


CHOC  O  RCA.  25 

The  highway  now  skirted  the  margin  of  Chocorua  Lake,  a  lovely  lit- 
tle sheet  of  water  voluptuously  reposing  at  the  foot  of  its  overshadowing 
mountain.  I  cannot  call  Chocorua  beautiful,  yet  of  all  the  White  Moun- 
tain peaks  is  it  the  most  individual,  the  most  aggressively  suggestive. 
But  the  lake,  fast  locked  in  the  embrace  of  encircling  hills,  bathed  in  all 
the  affluence  of  the  blessed  sunlight,  its  bosom  decorated  with  white 
lilies,  its  shores  (jlassed  in  water  which  looks  like  a  sheet  of  satin — ah, 
this  was  beautiful  indeed!  Its  charming  seclusion,  its  rare  combination 
of  laughing  water  and  impassive  old  mountains  ;  above  all,  the  striking 
contrast  between  its  chaste  beauty  and  the  huge -ribbed  thing  rising 
above,  awakens  a  variety  of  sensations.  It  is  passing  strange.  The 
mountain  attracts,  and  at  the  same  time  repels  you.  Two  sentiments 
struggle  here  for  mastery  —  open  admiration,  energetic  repulsion.  For 
the  first  time,  perhaps,  in  his  life,  the  beholder  feels  an  antipathy  for  a 
creation  of  inanimate  nature.  Chocorua  suggests  some  fabled  prodigy 
of  the  old  mythology — a  headless  Centaur,  sprung  from  the  foul  womb 
of  earth.     The  lake  seems  another  Andromeda  exposed  to  a  monster. 

A  beautiful  Indian  legend  ran  to  the  effect  that  the  stillness  of  the 
lake  was  sacred  to  the  Great  Spirit,  and  that  if  a  human  voice  was  heard 
upon  its  waters  the  offenders  canoe  would  instantly  sink  to  the  bottom. 

Chocorua,  as  seen  from  Tamworth,  shows  a  long,  undulating  ridge  of 
white  rising  over  one  of  green,  both  extending  toward  the  east,  and  open- 
ing betw^een  a  deep  ravine,  through  which  a  path  ascends  to  the  summit. 
But  this  way  affords  no  view  until  the  summit  is  close  at  hand.  Be- 
yond the  hump-backed  ridge  of  Chocorua  the  tip  of  the  southern  peak 
of  Moat  Mountain  peers  over,  like  a  mountain  standing  on  tiptoe. 

The  mountain,  with  its  formidable  outworks,  is  constantly  in  view 
until  the  highway  is  left  for  a  wood-road  winding  around  its  base  into 
an  interval  where  there  is  a  farm-house.  Here  the  road  ends  and  the 
ascent  begins. 

Taking  a  guide  here,  who  was  strong,  nimble,  and  sure-footed,  but 
who  proved  to  be  lamentably  ignorant  of  the  topography  of  the  country, 
we  were  in  a  few  moments  rapidly  threading  the  path  up  the  mountain. 

seemed  to  have  put  entire  faith,  after  Hving  to  a  great  age,  was,  according  to  the  tradition, 
translated  to  heaven  from  the  summit  of  Mount  Washington,  after  the  manner  of  Elias.  in  a 
chariot  of  fire,  surrounded  by  a  tempest  of  flame.  Wonnalancet  was  the  son  and  successor  of 
Passaconnaway.  Paugus,  an  under  chief  of  the  Pigwackets,  or  Sokol<is,  killed  in  the  battle 
with  Lovewell,  related  in  the  next  chapter. 


26 


THE    HEART    OF    THE     jrH/TE    MOiWTAIXS. 


It  ought  to  be  said  here  that,  with  rare  exceptions,  the  men  who  serve 
you  in  these  ascensions  should  be  regarded  rather  as  porters  than  as 
guides. 

In  about  an  hour  we  reached  the  summit  of  the  first  mountain;  for 
tliere  are  foiir  subordinate  ridges  to  cross  before  you  stand  under  the 
single  block  of  granite  forming  the  pinnacle. 


When  reconnoitring  this  pinnacle  through  your  glass,  at  a  distance 
of  fi\'c  miles,  you  will  say  to  scale  it  would  be  diflficult ;  when  you  have 
climbed  close  underneath  you  will  say  it  is  impossible.  After  surveying 
it  from  the  bare  ledges  of  Bald  Mountain,  where  we  stood  lettino;  the 
cool  breeze  blow  upon  us,  I  asked  my  guide  where  we  could  ascend. 
He-  pointed  out  a  long  crack,  or  crevice,  toward  the  left,  in  which  a  few 
bushes  were  growing.  It  is  narrow,  almost  perpendicular,  and  seem- 
ingly inijiracticable.  I  could  not  help  exclaiming,  "What,  up  there! 
nothing  but  birds  of  the  air  can  mount  that  sheer  wall !"'  It  is,  however, 
there  or  nowhere  you  must  ascend. 

The  whole   upper  zone   of  the   mountain   seems  smitten   with  palsy. 


CHOCORUA.  27 

Excejot  in  the  ravines  between  the  inferior  summits,  nothing  grew,  noth- 
ing reheved  the  wide-spread  desolation.  Beyond  us  rose  the  enormous 
conical  crag,  scarred  and  riven  by  lightning,  which  gives  to  Chocorua  its 
highly  distinctive  character.  It  is  no  longer  ashen,  but  black  with  lich- 
ens. There  was  little  of  symmetry,  nothing  of  grace ;  only  the  grandeur 
of  power.  You  might  as  well  pelt  it  with  snow -balls  as  batter  it  with 
the  mightiest  artillery.  For  ages  it  has  brushed  the  tempest  aside,  has 
seen  the  thunder -bolt  shivered  against  its  imperial  battlements;  for 
ages  to  come  it  will  continue  to  defy  the  utmost  power  that  can  assail 
it.  And  what  enemies  it  has  withstood,  overthrown,  or  put  to  rout ! 
Not  far  from  the  base  of  the  pinnacle  evidence  that  the  mountain  was 
once  densely  wooded  is  on  all  sides.  The  rotted  stumps  of  large  trees 
still  cling  with  a  death -grip  to  the  ledges,  the  shrivelled  trunks  lie 
bleaching  where  they  were  hurled  by  the  hurricane.  Many  years  ago 
this  region  was  desolated  by  fire.  In  the  night  Old  Chocorua,  lighting 
his  fiery  torch,  stood  in  the  midst  of  his  own  funeral  pyre.  The  burn- 
ing mountain  illuminated  the  sky  and  put  out  the  stars.  A  brilliant 
circle  of  light,  twenty  miles  in  extent,  surrounded  the  flaming  peak  like 
a  halo ;  while  underneath  an  immense  tongue  of  forked  flame  licked  the 
sides  of  the  summit  with  devouring  haste.  The  lakes,  those  bright  jew- 
els lying  in  the  lap  of  the  valleys,  glowed  like  enormous  carbuncles. 
Superstitious  folk  regarded  the  conflagration  as  a  portent  of  war  or  pes- 
tilence. In  the  morning  a  few  charred  trunks,  standing  erect,  were  all 
that  remained  of  the  original  forest.  The  rocks  themselves  bear  witness 
to  the  intense  heat  which  has  either  cracked  them  wide  open,  crumlaled 
them  in  pieces,  or  divested  them,  like  oysters,  of  their  outer  shell,  all 
along  the  path  of  the  conflagration. 

The  walk  over  the  lower  summits  to  the  base  of  the  peak  occupied 
another  hour,  and  is  a  most  profitable  feature  of  the  ascent.  On  each 
side  a  superb  panorama  of  mountains  and  lakes,  of  towns,  villages,  and 
hamlets,  is  being  slowly  unrolled ;  while  every  forward  step  develops 
the  inaccessible  character  of  the  high  summit  more  and  more. 

Having  strayed  from  the  path  to  gather  blueberries,  my  companion 
set  me  again  on  the  march  by  pointing  out  where  a  bear  had  been  feed- 
ing not  long  before.  Yet,  while  assuring  me  that  Bruin  was  perfectly 
harmless  at  this  season,  I  did  not  fail  to  remark  that  my  guide  made  the 
most  rapid  strides  of  the  day  after  this  discovery.  While  feeling  our 
way  around   the   base   of   the   pinnacle,  in   order  to  gain  the  ravine   by 


28  THE     HEART    OF    THE     W H J T E     MOL  .\  TAIXS. 

which  it  is  attacked,  the  path  suddenly  stopped.  At  the  right,  project- 
ing rocks,  affording  a  hold  for  neither  hand  nor  foot,  rose  like  a  wall ; 
before  us,  joined  to  the  perpendicular  rock,  an  unbroken  ledge  of  bare 
granite,  smoothly  polished  by  ice,  swept  down  by  a  sharp  incline  hun- 
dreds of  feet,  and  then  broke  off  abruptly  into  profounder  depths.  To 
advance  upon  this  ledge,  as  steep  as  a  roof,  and  where  one  false  step 
would  inevitably  send  the  climber  rolling  to  the  bottom  of  the  ravine, 
demands  steady  nerves.  It  invests  the  whole  jaunt  with  just  enough  of 
the  perilous  to  excite  the  apprehensions,  or  provoke  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  individual  who  stands  there  for  the  first  time,  looking  askance  at  his 
guide,  and  revolving  the  chances  of  crossing  it  in  safety.  While  debat- 
ing with  myself  whether  to  take  off  my  boots,  or  go  down  on  my  hands 
and  knees  and  creep,  the  guide  crossed  this  place  with  a  steady  step; 
and,  upon  reaching  the  opposite  side,  grasped  a  fragment  of  rock  with 
one  hand  while  extending  his  staff  to  me  with  the  other.  Rather  than 
accept  his  assistance,  I  passed  over  with  an  assurance  I  was  far  from 
feeling;  but  when  we  came  down  the  mountain  I  walked  across  with 
far  more  ease  in  my  stockings.' 

When  he  saw  me  safely  over,  my  conductor  moved  on,  with  the 
remark, 

"  A  skittish  place." 

"  Skittish,"  indeed !  We  proceeded  to  drag  ourselves  up  the  ravine 
by  the  aid  of  bushes,  or  such  protruding  rocks  as  offered  a  hold.  From 
the  \alley  below  we  must  have  looked  like  flies  creeping  up  a  wall. 
After  a  breathless  scramble,  which  put  me  in  mind  of  the  escalade  of 
the  Iron  Castle  of  Porto  Bello,  where  the  English,  having  no  scaling-lad- 
ders, mounted  over  each  other's  shoulders,  we  came  to  a  sort  of  plateau, 
on  which  was  a  ruined  hut.  The  view  here  is  varied  and  extensive;  but 
after  regaining  our  breath  we  hastened  to  complete  the  ascent,  in  order 
to  enjoy,  in  all  its  perfection,  the  prospect  awaiting  us  on  the  summit. 

Like  Goethe's  Wilhelm  Meister,  it  is  among  mountains  that  my 
knowledge  of  them  has  been  obtained.  I  have  little  hesitation,  then,  in 
pronouncing  the  view  from  Chocorua  one  of  the  noblest  that  can  reward 
the  adventurous  climber;  for,  notwithstanding  it  is  not  a  high  peak,  and 
cannot,  therefore,  unfold  the  whole   mountain  system  at  a  glance,  it  yet 


'  Something  has  since  been  done  by  the  Appalachian  Club  to  render  this  part  of  the  as- 
cent less  hazardous  than  it  formerly  was. 


CIIOCORUA.  29 

affords  an  unsurpassed  view-point,  from  which  one  sees  the  surrounding 
mountains  rising  on  all  sides  in  all  their  majesty,  and  clothed  in  all  their 
terrors. 

Let  me  try  to  explain  why  Chocorua  is  such  a  remarkable  and  eligi- 
ble post  of  observation. 

One  comprehends  perfectly  that  the  last  high  building  on  the  skirts 
of  a  city  embraces  the  largest  unobstructed  view  of  the  surrounding 
country.  This  mountain  is  placed  at  the  extremity  of  a  range  that  abuts 
upon  the  lower  Saco  valley,  and  therefore  overlooks  all  the  hill-country 
on  the  east  and  south-east  as  far  as  the  sea-coast.  The  arc  of  this  circle 
of  vision  extends  from  the  Camden  Hills  to  Agamenticus,  or  from  the 
Penobscot  to  the  Piscataqna.  The  day  being  one  of  a  thousand,  I  dis- 
tinctly saw  the  ocean  with  the  naked  eye ;  not  merely  as  a  white  blur 
on  the  horizon's  edge,  but  actual  blue  water,  over  which  smoke  was  curl- 
ing. This  magnificent  coiip-d'anl  embraces  the  scattered  villages  of 
Conway,  Fryeburg,  Madison,  Eaton,  Ossipee,  with  their  numerous  lakes 
and  streams.  I  counted  seventeen  of  the  former  flashing  in  the  sun. 
'  In  the  second  place,  Chocorua  stands  at  the  entrance  to  the  valley 
opening  between  the  Sandwich  and  Ossipee  chains,  and  commands, 
therefore,  to  the  south-west,  between  these  natural  walls,  the  northern 
limb  of  Winnipiseogee  and  of  Sciuam,  which  are  seen  glittering  on  each 
side  of  Red  Hill.  In  the  foreground,  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  Cho- 
corua Lake  is  beyond  cjuestion  the  most  enticing  object  in  a  landscape 
wonderfully  lighted  and  enriched  by  its  profusion  of  brilliant  waters, 
which  resemble  so  many  highly  burnished  reflectors  multiplying  the 
rays  of  the  sun.  I  was  now  looking  back  to  my  first  station  on  Red 
Hill,  only  the  range  of  vision  was  much  more  extensive.  It  is  unneces- 
sary to  recapitulate  the  names  of  the  villages  and  summits  seen  in  this 
direction.  Over  the  lakes,  Winnipiseogee  and  Squam,  the  humid  peaks 
of  Mount  Belknap  and  of  Mount  Kearsarge,  in  Warner,  last  caught  the 
eye.  These  two  sections  of  the  landscape  first  meet  the  eye  of  the 
climber  while  advancing  toward  the  peak,  whose  rugged  head  and 
brawny  shoulders  intercept  the  view  to  the  north,  only  to  be  enjoyed 
when  the  mountain  is  fully  conquered. 

Upon  the  cap-stone  crowning  the  pinnacle,  supporting  myself  by 
grasping  the  signal-staff  planted  on  the  highest  point  of  this  rock,  from 
which  the  wind  threatened  to  sweep  us  like  chaff,  I  enjoyed  the  third 
and  final  act  of  this  sublime  tableau,  in  which  the  whole  company  of 


30  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

mountains  is  crowded  upon  the  stage.  Hundreds  of  dark  and  bristling 
shapes  confronted  us.  Like  a  horde  of  barbarians,  they  seemed  silently 
awaiting  the  signal  to  march  upon  the  lowlands.  As  the  wind  swept 
through  their  ranks,  an  impatient  murmur  rose  from  the  midst.  Each 
mountain  shook  its  myriad  spears,  and  gave  its  voice  to  swell  the  sub- 
lime chorus.  At  first  all  was  confusion;  then  I  began  to  seek  out  the 
chiefs,  whose  rock-helmed  heads,  lifted  high  above  their  grisly  battalions, 
invested  each  with  a  distinction  and  a  sovereignty  which  yielded  noth- 
ing except  to  that  imperial  peak  over  which  attendant  clouds  hovered  or 
floated  swiftly  awa)',  as  if  bearing  a  message  to  those  distant  encamp- 
ments pitched  on  the  farthest  verge  of  the  Imrizon. 

At  my  left  hand  extended  all  the  summits,  forming  at  their  western 
extremity  the  valley  of  Mad  River,  and  terminating  in  the  immovable 
mass  of  Black  Mountain.  The  peaks  of  Tripyramid,  Tecumseh,  and 
Osceola  stretched  along  the  northern  cour.se  of  this  stream,  and  over 
them  gleamed  afar  the  massive  plateau -ridge  of  Moosehillock.  From 
my  stand-point  the  great  wall  of  the  Sandwich  chain,  which  from  Tam- 
worth  presents  an  unbroken  front  to  the  south,  now  divided  into  ridges' 
running  north  and  south,  separated  by  profound  ravines.  Paugus 
crouched  at  my  feet;  Passaconnaway  elevated  his  fine  crest  next;  White- 
face,  his  lowered  and  brilliant  front ;  and  then  Black  Mountain,  the  giant 
landmark  of  half  a  score  of  towns  and  villages. 

Directly  at  my  feet,  to  the  north-west,  the  great  intervale  of  Swift 
River  gleamed  from  the  de])ths  of  this  valley,  like  sunshine  from  a 
storm-cloud.  Following  the  course  of  this  little  oasis,  the  eye  wandered 
over  the  inaccessible  and  untrodden  peaks  of  the  Pemigewasset  wilder- 
ness, resting  last  on  the  blue  ridge  of  the  Franconia  Mountains.  About 
midway  of  this  line  one  sees  the  bristling  slopes  of  Mounts  Carrigain 
and  Hancock,  and  the  Carrigain  Notch,  tlirougli  which  a  hardy  pedes- 
trian may  pass  from  the  Pemigewasset  to  the  Saco  by  following  the 
course  of  the  streams  flowing  out  of  it.  Besides  its  solitary,  picturesque 
grandeur,  Carrigain  has  the  distinction  of  being  the  geographical  centre 
of  the  White  Mountain  group.  Taking  its  peak  for  an  axis,  a  radius 
thirty  miles  long  will  describe  a  circle,  including  in  its  sweep  nearly  the 
whole  mountain  system.  In  this  sense  Carrigain  is,  therefore,  the  hub 
of  the  White  Mountains. 

Having  explored  the  horizon  thus  far,  I  now  turned  more  to  the 
north,  where,  by  a  fortunate  chance,  Chocorua  dominates  a  portion  of 


CHOCORUA.  21 

the  chain  intervening  between  itself  and  the  Saco  Valley.  I  was  look- 
ing straight  up  this  valley  through  the  great  White  Mountain  Notch. 
There  was  the  dark  spire  of  Mount  Willey,  and  the  scarred  side  of 
Webster.  There  was  the  arched  rock  of  Mount  Willard,  and  over  it 
the  liquid  profile  of  Cherry  Mountain.  It  was  superb ;  it  was  idyllic. 
Such  was  the  perfect  transparency  of  the  air,  that  I  clearly  distinguished 
the  red  color  of  the  slides  on  Mount  Webster  without  the  aid  of  my 
glass. 

From  this  centre,  outlined  with  a  bold,  free  hand  against  the  azure, 
the  undulations  of  the  great  White  Mountains  ascended  grandly  to  the 
dome  of  Mount  Washington,  and  then  plunged  into  the  defiles  of  the 
Pinkham  Notch.  Following  this  line  eastward,  the  eye  traversed  the 
mountains  of  Jackson  to  the  half-closed  aperture  of  the  Carter  Notch, 
finally  resting  on  the  pinnacle  of  Kearsarge.  Without  stirring  a  single 
step,  we  have  taken  a  journey  of  three  hundred  miles. 

Down  in  the  valley  the  day  was  one  of  the  sultriest ;  up  here  it  was 
so  cold  that  our  teeth  chattered.  We  were  forced  to  descend  into  the 
hollow  lying  between  the  northerly  foot  of  the  peak  and  the  first  of  the 
bald  knobs  constituting  the  great  white  ridge  of  the  mountain.  Here 
is  a  fine  spring,  and  here,  on  either  side  of  this  singular  rock-gallery,  is 
a  landscape  of  rare  beauty  enclosed  by  its  walls.  Here,  too,  the  muti- 
lated pyramid  of  the  peak  rises  before  you  like  an  antique  ruin.  One 
finds,  without  effort,  striking  resemblances  to  winding  galleries,  bastions, 
and  battlements.  He  could  pass  days  and  weeks  here  without  a  single 
wish  to  return  to  earth.  Here  we  ate  our  luncheon,  and  perused  the 
landscape  at  leisure.  Before  us  stretched  the  long  course  of  the  Saco, 
from  its  source  in  the  Notch  to  where,  with  one  grand  sweep  to  the  east, 
it  takes  leave  of  the  mountains,  flows  awhile  demurely  through  the  low- 
lands, and  in  two  or  three  infuriated  plunges  reaches  the  sea. 

I  do  not  remember  when  I  have  more  fully  enjoyed  the  serene  calm 
of  a  Sabbath  evening  than  while  wandering  among  the  fragrant  and 
stately  pines  that  skirt  the  shores  of  Lake  Chocorua.  Indeed,  e.xcept 
for  the  occasional  sound  of  hoofs  along  the  cool  and  shady  road,  or  of 
voices  coming  from  the  bosom  of  the  lake  itself,  one  might  say  a  per- 
petual Sabbath  reigned  here.  Yonder  tall,  athletic  pines,  those  palms  of 
the  north,  through  which  the  glimmer  of  water  is  seen,  hum  their  mo- 
notonous lullaby  to  the  drowsy  lake.  The  mountains  seem  so  many 
statues  to   Silence.     There   is   no   use  for  speech  here.     The  mute  and 


32  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

expressive  language  of  two  lovers,  accustomed  to  read  each  others'  secret 
thoughts,  is  the  divine  medium.  Truant  breezes  ruffle  the  foliage  in 
playful  wantonness,  but  the  trees  only  shake  their  green  heads  and  mur- 
mur "  Hush !  hush !"  A  consecration  is  upon  the  mere,  a  hallowed  light 
within  the  wood.  Here  is  the  place  to  linger  over  the  pages  of  "  Hype- 
rion," or  dream  away  the  idle  hours  with  the  poets;  and  here,  stretched 
alone  the  turf,  one  tjets  closer  to  Nature,  studving  her  with  ever-increas- 
ing  wonder  and  delight,  or  musing  upon  the  thousand  forms  of  mysteri- 
ous life  swarming  in  the  clod  under  his  hand. 

Charming,  too,  arc  the  walks  by  the  lake -side  in  the  effulgence  of 
the  harvest-moon  ;  and  enchanting  the  white  splendor  quivering  on  its 
dark  waters.  A  boat  steals  by ;  see !  its  oars  dip  up  molten  silver. 
The  voyagers  troll  a  love-ditty.  Dangerous  ground  this  colonnade  of 
woods  and  yonder  sparkling  water  for  self-conscious  lovers !  Love  and 
the  ocean  have  the  same  subtle  sympathy  with  moonlight.  The  stronger 
its  beams  the  higher  rises  the  flood. 

Very  little  of  the  world — but  tliat  little  the  best  part — gets  in  here. 
It  is  out  of  the  beaten  path  of  mountain-travel,  so  that  those  only  who 
have  in  a  manner  served  their  apprenticeship  are  sojourners.  One  small 
hotel  and  a  few  boarding-houses  easily  accommodate  all  comers.  For 
people  who  like  to  refine  their  pleasures,  as  well  as  their  society,  or  who 
have  wearied  of  life  at  the  great  hotels,  such  a  place  offers  a  most  tempt- 
ing retreat.     Display  makes  no  part  of  the  social  regime.     Mrs.  P is 

not  jealous  of  Mrs.  O 's  diamonds.     Ladies  stroll  about  unattended, 

gather  water-lilies,  cardinal-flowers,  and  rare  ferns  by  brook  or  wa\--side. 
Gentlemen  row,  drive,  climb  the  mountains,  or  make  little  pedestrian 
tours  of  discovery.  Quiet  people  are  irresistibly  attracted  to  this  kind 
of  life,  which,  with  a  good  degree  of  probability,  they  assert  to  be  the 
true  and  only  rational  way  of  enjoying  the  mountains. 


LOVEWELL.  33 


IV. 

LOVEWELL. 

Of  worthy  Captain  Lovewell  I  purpose  now  to  sing. 
How  valiantly  he  served  his  country  and  his  king. 

Old  Ballad. 

LET  US  make  a  detour  to  historic  Fryeburg,  leaving  the  cars  at  Con- 
way, which  in  former  times  enjoyed  a  happy  pre-eminence  as  the 
centre  upon  which  the  old  stage -routes  converged,  and  where  travellers, 
going  or  returning  from  the  mountains,  always  passed  the  night.  But 
those  old  travellers  have  mostly  gone  where  the  name  of  Chatigee,  by 
which  both  drivers  and  tourists  liked  to  designate  Conway,  is  going; 
only  there  is  for  the  name,  fortunately,  no  resurrection.  No  one  knows 
its  origin ;  none  will  mourn  its  decease. 

It  is  here,  at  Conway,  or  Conway  Corner,  that  first  enrapturing  view 
of  the  White  Mountains  bursts  upon  the  traveller  like  a  splendid  vision. 
But  we  shall  see  it  again  on  our  return  from  Fryeburg.  Moreover,  I 
enjoyed  this  constant  espionage  from  a  distance  before  a  nearer  ap- 
proach, this  exchange  of  preliminary  civilities  before  coming  closer  to 
the  heart  of  the  mountains. 

Fryeburg  stands  on  a  dry  and  sandy  plain,  elevated  above  the  Saco 
River.  It  lies  behind  the  mountain  range,  which,  terminating  in  Con- 
way, compels  the  river  to  make  a  right  angle.  Turning  these  mountains, 
the  river  seems  now  to  be  in  no  hurry,  but  coils  about  the  meadows  in 
a  manner  that  instantly  recalls  the  famous  Connecticut  Ox-Bow.  Cho- 
corua  and  Kearsarge  are  the  two  prominent  figures  in  the  landscape. 

The  village  street  is  most  beautifully  shaded  by  elms  of  great  size, 
which,  giving  to  each  other  an  outstretched  hand  over  the  way,  spring 
an  arch  of  green  high  above,  through  which  we  look  up  and  down.  At 
one  end  justice  is  dispensed  at  the  Oxford  House — an  inn  with  a  pedi- 
gree;  at  the  other  learning  is  diffused  in  the   academy  where  Webster 

4 


34 


THE     HEAR2'     OF     THE     WHITE     MOUXTAIXS. 


LOVBWELL  b   POND. 


''-  '  once  taught  and  disciplined  the  rising  gen- 
s,   '^v  eration.     A    scroll    over   the   inn   door  bears 

the  date  of  1763.  The  first  school-house  and 
the  first  framed  house  built  in  Fryeburg  are  still  standing,  a  little  way 
out  of  the  village.  On  our  way  to  the  remarkable  rock,  emerging  from 
the  plain  like  a  walrus  from  the  sea,  we  linger  a  moment  in  the  village 
graveyard  to  read  tlic  long  inscri])tion  on  tlic  monument  of  General 
Joseph  Frye,  a  veteran  of  the  old  wars,  and  founder  of  the  town  which 
bears  his  name.  Ascending  now  the  rock  to  which  we  just  referred, 
called  the  Jockey  Cap,  we  arc  lifted  high  above  the  plain,  having  the 
river  meadows,  the  graceful  loops  of  thu  river  itself,  the  fine  pyramid  of 
Kearsarge  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  the  dark  sheet  of  Lovewell's 
Pond  stretched  at  our  feet. 

It  was  here,  under  the  shadow  of  Mount  Kearsarge,  was  fought  one  of 
the  bloodiest  and  most  obstinately  contested  battles  that  can  be  found  in 
the  annals  of  war;  so  terrible,  indeed,  that  the  story  was  repeated  from 
fireside  to  fireside,  and  from  generation  to  generation,  as  worthy  a  niche 
beside  that  of  Leonidas  and  his  band  of  heroes.  Familiar  as  is  the  tale 
—  and  wlio  does  not  know  it  I)v  heart?  —  it  can  still  send  tlie  Ijlood 
throbbing  to  the  temples,  or  coursing  back  to  the  heart.  Unfortunately, 
the  details  are  sufficiently  meagre,  but,  in  truth,  they  need  no  embellish- 
ment. Their  very  simplicity  presents  the  tragedy  in  all  its  grandeur. 
It  is  an  epic. 

In  April,  1725,  John  Lovewell,  a  hardy  and  experienced  ranger  of 
Dunstable,  whose  exploits  had  already  noised  his  fame  abroad,  marched 
with  forty-six  men  for  the  Indian  villages  at  Pigwacket,  now  Fryeburg, 
Maine.  At  Ossipee  he  built  a  small  fort,  designed  as  a  refuge  in  case 
of  disaster.     This  precaution  undoubtedly  saved  the  lives  of  some  of  his 


LOVE  WELL.  35 

men.  He  was  now  within  two  short  marches  of  the  enemy's  village. 
The  scouts  having  found  Indian  tracks  in  the  neighborhood,  Lovewell 
resumed  his  route,  leaving  one  of  his  men  who  had  fallen  sick,  his  sur- 
geon, and  eitrht  men,  to  a;uard  the  fort.  His  command  was  now  reduced 
to  thirty-four  ofificers  and  men. 

The  rangers  reached  the  shores  of  the  beautiful  lake  which  bears 
Lovewell's  name,  and  bivouacked  for  the  night. 

The  night  passed  without  an  alarm ;  but  the  sentinels  who  watched 
the  encampment  reported  hearing  strange  noises  in  the  woods.  Love- 
well  scented  the  presence  of  his  enemy. 

In  fact,  on  the  morning  of  the  Sth  of  May,  while  his  band  were  on 
their  knees  seeking  Divine  favor  in  the  approaching  conflict,  the  report 
of  a  gun  brought  every  man  to  his  feet.  Upon  reconnoitring,  a  solitary 
Indian  was  discovered  on  a  point  of  land  about  a  mile  from  the  camp. 

The  leader  immediately  called  his  men  about  him,  and  told  them  that 
they  must  now  quickly  decide  whether  to  fight  or  retreat.  The  men, 
with  one  accord,  replied  that  they  had  not  come  so  far  in  search  of  the 
enemy  to  beat  a  shameful  retreat  the  moment  he  was  found.  Seeing 
his  band  possessed  with  this  spirit,  Lovewell  then  prepared  for  battle. 
The  rangers  threw  off  their  knapsacks  and  blankets,  looked  to  their 
primings,  and  loosened  their  knives  and  axes.  The  order  was  then 
given,  and  they  moved  cautiously  out  of  their  camp.  Believing  the 
enemy  was  in  his  front,  Lovewell  neglected  to  place  a  guard  over  his 
baggage. 

Instead  of  plunging  into  the  woods,  the  Indian  who  had  alarmed  the 
camp  stood  where  he  was  first  seen  until  the  scouts  fired  upon  him, 
when  he  returned  the  fire,  wounding  Lovewell  and  one  other.  Ensign 
Wyman  then  levelled  his  musket  and  shot  him  dead.  The  day  began 
thus  unfortunately  for  the  English.  Lovewell  was  mortally  wounded  in 
the  abdomen,  but  continued  to  give  his  orders. 

After  clearing  the  woods  in  their  front  without  finding  any  more 
Indians,  the  rangers  fell  back  toward  the  spot  where  they  had  deposited 
their  packs.  This  was  a  sandy  plain,  thinly  covered  with  pines,  at  the 
north-east  end  of  the  lake. 

During  their  absence,  the  Indians,  led  by  the  old  chief,  Paugus, 
whose  name  was  a  terror  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
English  frontiers,  stumbled  upon  the  deserted  encampment.  Paugus 
counted  the  packs,  and,  finding  his   warriors   outnumbered   the   rangers. 


36  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MO  L  WTAIXS. 

the  wily  chief  placed  them  in  ambush ;  he  divined  that  the  English 
would  return  from  their  unsuccessful  scout  sooner  or  later,  and  he  pre- 
pared to  repeat  the  tactics  used  with  such  fatal  effect  at  Bloody  Brook, 
and  at  the  defeat  of  W'adsworth.  This  consisted  in  arranging  his  sav- 
ages in  a  semicircle,  the  two  wings  of  which,  enveloping  the  rangers, 
would  expose  them  to  a  murderous  cross-fire  at  short  musket-range. 

Without  suspecting  their  danger,  Lovewell's  men  fell  into  the  fatal 
snare  which  the  crafty  Paugus  had  thus  spread  for  them.  Hardly  had 
they  entered  it  when  the  grove  blazed  with  a  deadl\-  \olley,  and  re- 
sounded with  the  yells  of  the  Indians.  As  if  confident  of  their  ])rey, 
they  even  left  their  coverts,  and  tiung  themselves  upon  the  English  with 
a  fury  nothing  could  withstand. 

In  this  onset  Lovewell,  who,  notwithstanding  his  wound,  bravely  en- 
couraged his  men  with  voice  and  example,  received  a  second  wound,  and 
fell.  Two  of  his  lieutenants  were  killed  at  his  side ;  but  with  desperate 
valor  the  rangers  charged  up  to  the  muzzles  of  the  enemy's  guns,  killing 
nine,  and  sweeping  the  others  before  them.  This  gallant  charge  cost 
them  eight  killed,  besides  their  captain ;  two  more  were  badly  wounded. 

Twenty-three  men  had  now  to  maintain  the  conflict  with  the  whole 
Sokokis  tribe.  Their  situation  was  indeed  desperate.  Relief  was  im- 
possible ;  for  they  were  fifty  miles  from  the  nearest  English  settlements. 
Their  packs  and  provisions  were  in  the  enemy's  hands,  and  the  wood? 
swarmed  with  foes.  To  conquer  or  die  was  the  only  alternative.  These 
devoted  Englishmen  despaired  of  conquering,  but  tlicy  pre])arcd  to  die 
bravely. 

Ensign  Wyman,  on  whom  the  command  devolved  after  the  death  of 
Lovewell,  was  his  worthy  successor.  Seeing  the  enemy  stealing  upon 
his  flanks  as  if  to  surround  him,  he  ordered  his  men  to  fall  back  to  the 
shore  of  the  lake,  where  their  right  was  protected  by  a  Ijrook,  and  tlieir 
left  by  a  rocky  point  extending  into  the  lake.  \  few  large  pines  stood 
on  the  beach  between. 

This  manoeuvre  was  executed  under  a  hot  fire,  which  still  further 
thinned  the  ranks  of  the  English.  The  Indians  closed  in  upon  them, 
filling  the  air  with  demoniac  yells  whenever  a  victim  fell.  Assailing  the 
whites  with  taunts,  and  shaking  ropes  in  their  faces,  they  cried  out  to 
them  to  yield.  But  to  the  repeated  demands  to  surrender,  the  rangers 
replied  only  with  bullets.  They  thought  of  the  fort  and  its  ten  defend- 
ers, and   hoped,  or   rather   prayed,  for   night.      This   hope,  forlorn  as  it 


LOVE  WELL.  37 

seemed,  encouraged  them  to  fight  on,  and  they  delivered  their  fire  with 
fatal  precision  whenever  an  Indian  showed  himself.  The  English  were 
in  a  trap,  but  the  Indians  dared  not  approach  within  reach  of  the  lion's 
claws. 

While  this  long  combat  was  proceeding,  one  of  the  English  went  to 
the  lake  to  wash  his  gun,  and,  on  emerging  at  the  shore,  descried  an 
Indian  in  the  act  of  cleansing  his  own.     This  Indian  was  Paugus. 

The  ranger  went  to  work  like  a  man  who  comprehends  that  his  life 
depends  upon  a  second.  The  chief  followed  him  in  every  movement. 
Both  charsred  their  tjuns  at  the  same  instant.  The  Englishman  threw 
his  ramrod  on  the  sand ;  the  Indian  dropped  his. 

"  Me  kill  you,"  said  Paugus,  priming  his  weapon  from  his  powder- 
horn. 

"  The  chief  lies,"  retorted  the  undaunted  ranger,  striking  the  breech 
of  his  firelock  upon  the  ground  with  such  force  that  it  primed  itself. 
An  instant  later  Pausrus  fell,  shot  throua,h  the  heart. 

"  I  said  I  should  kill  you,"  muttered  the  victor,  spurning  the  dead 
body  of  his  enemy,  and  plunging  into  the  thickest  of  the  fight. 

Darkness  closed  the  conflict,  which  had  continued  without  cessation 
since  ten  in  the  morning.  Little  by  little  the  shouts  of  the  enemy  grew 
feebler,  and  finally  ceased.  The  English  stood  to  their  arms  until  mid- 
night, when,  convinced  that  the  savages  had  abandoned  the  sanguinary 
field  of  battle,  they  began  their  retreat  toward  the  fort.  Only  nine 
were  unhurt.  Eleven  were  badly  wounded,  but  were  resolved  to  march 
with  their  comrades,  though  they  died  by  the  way.  Three  more  were 
alive,  but  had  received  their  death -wounds.  One  of  these  was  Lieuten- 
ant Robbins,  of  Chelmsford.  Knowing  that  he  must  be  left  behind,  he 
begged  his  comrades  to  load  his  gun,  in  order  that  he  might  sell  his  life 
as  dearly  as  possible  when  the  savages  returned  to  wreak  their  ven- 
geance upon  the  wounded. 

I  have  said  that  twenty -three  men  continued  the  fight  after  the 
bloody  repulse  in  which  Lovewell  was  killed.  There  were  only  twenty- 
two.  The  other,  whose  name  the  reader  will  excuse  me  from  mention- 
ing, fled  from  the  field  and  gained  the  fort,  where  he  spread  the  report 
that  Lovewell  was  cut  to  pieces,  himself  being  the  sole  survivor.  This 
intelligence,  striking  terror,  decided  the  little  garrison  to  abandon  the 
fort,  which  was  immediately  done,  and  in  haste. 

This  was  the  crowning  misfortune  of  the   expedition.     The   rangers 


38  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

now  became  a  band  of  panic-stricken  fugitives.  After  incredible  hard- 
ships, less  than  twenty  starving,  emaciated,  and  footsore  men,  half  of 
tliem  badly  wounded,  straggled  into  the  nearest  English  settlements. 

The  loss  of  the  Indians  could  only  be  guessed;  but  the  battle  led  to 
the  immediate  abandonment  of  tlieir  village,  from  which  so  many  war- 
l^artics  had  formerly  harassed  the  English.  Paugus,  the  savage  wolf, 
the  implacable  foe  of  the  whites,  was  dead.  His  tribe  forsook  the  graves 
of  their  fathers,  nor  rested  until  they  had  put  many  long  leagues  be- 
tween them  and  their  pursuers.  For  them  the  advance  of  the  English 
was  tlie  Juggernaut  under  whose  wheels  their  race  was  doomed  to  ]3er- 
ish  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 


NORTH    CON WA  V. 


39 


V. 

NORTH    CONWAY. 

"Tall  spire  from  which  the  sound  of  cheerful  bells 
Just  undulates  upon  the  listening  ear, 
Groves,  heaths,  and  smoking  villages  remote." 

THE  entrance  to  North  Conway  is,  without  doubt,  the  most  beauti- 
ful and  imposing  introduction  to  the  high  mountains. 

Although  the  traveller  has  for  fifty  miles  skirted  the  outlying  ranges, 
catching  quick-shifting  glimpses  of  the  great  summits,  yet,  when  at  last 
the  train  swings  round  the  foot  of  the  Moat  range  into  the  Saco  Valley, 
so  complete  is  the  transition,  so  charming  the  picture,  that  not  even  the 
most  apathetic  can  repress  a  movement  of  surprise  and  admiration. 
This  is  the  moment  when  every  one  feels  the  inadecjuacy  of  his  own 
conceptions. 

Nature  has  formed  here  a  vast  antechamber,  into  which  you  are  ush- 
ered through  a  gate-way  of  mountains  upon  the  numerous  inner  courts, 
galleries,  and  cloisters  of  her  most  secluded  retreats.  Here  the  moun- 
tains fall  back  before  the  impetuous  flood  of  the  Saco,  which  comes 
pouring  down  from  the  summit  of  the  great  Notch,  white,  and  panting 
with  the  haste  of  its  flight.  Here  the  river  gives  rendezvous  to  several 
of  its  larger  affluents  —  the  East  Branch,  the  Ellis,  the  Swift  —  and,  like 
an  army  taking  the  field,  their  united  streams,  sweeping  grandly  around 
the  foot  of  the  last  mountain  range,  emerge  into  the  open  country. 
Here  the  valley,  contracted  at  its  extremity  between  the  gentle  slope  of 
Kearsarge  and  the  abrupt  declivities  of  Moat,  encloses  an  ellipse  of  ver- 
dant and  fertile  land  ravishing  to  behold,  skirted  on  one  side  by  thick 
woods,  behind  which  precipices  a  thousand  feet  high  rise  black  and 
threatening,  overlooked  on  the  other  by  a  high  terrace,  along  which 
the  village  is  built.  It  is  the  inferior  summit  of  Kearsarge,  which  de- 
scends by  a  long,  regular  slope  to  the  intervale  at  its  upper  end,  while  a 


40 


THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MO  UNTAINS. 


secondary  ridge  of  the  Moats,  advancing  on  the  opposite  side,  drops  into 
it  by  a  precipice.  The  superb  silver-gray  crest  of  Kearsarge  is  seen  ris- 
ing in  a  regular  pyramid  behind  the  right  shoulder  of  its  lower  summit. 
Ordinarily  the  house  perched  on  the  top  is  seen  as  distinctly  as  those  in 
the  village.     It  is  the  last  in  the  village. 

Looking  up  through  this  verdant  mountain  park,  at  a  distance  of 
twenty  miles,  the  imposing  masses  of  the  great  summits  seen)  scaling 
the  skies.  Then,  heavily  massed  on  the  right,  comes  the  Carter  range, 
divided  by  the  cup-shaped  dip  of  the  Carter  Notch ;  then  the  truncated 
cone  of  Double- Head;  and  then,  with  outworks  firmly  planted  in  the 
valley,  the  glittering  pinnacle  of  Kearsarge.  The  mountain  in  front  of 
you,  looking  up  the  village  street,  is  Thorn  Mountain,  on  the  other  side 
of  which  is  Jackson,  and  the  way  up  the  Ellis  Valley  to  the  Pinkham 
Notch,  the  Glen  House,  Gorham,  and  the  Androscoggin. 

The  traveller,  who  is  ushered  upon  this  splendid  scene  with  the 
rapidity  of  steam,  perceives   that   he   is   at   last   among    real    mountains. 


-..'-rf'.'V^tw'^-**''*-  ■''  "''*'■   ' 


^^ 


fVX_ 


MOUNT    WASHlNGTOiN    KKOM    THE    SACO. 


and   quickly   yields   to   the    indefinable   cliarni    which    from   this   moment 
surrounds  and  holds  him  a  willing  captive. 

Looking  across  the  meadow  from  the  village  street,  the  eye  is  stopped 
by  an  isolated  ridge  of  bare,  overhanging  precipices.  It  is  thrust  out 
into  the  valley  from  Moat  Mountain,  of  which  it  forms  a  part,  present- 
ing two  singular,  regularly  arched  cliffs,  seven  hundred  to  nine  hundred 
and  fifty  feet  in  height  toward  the  village.  The  green  forest  underneath 
contrasts    vividly    with    the    lustrous   black   of    these    precipitous    walls. 


NORTH    CONWAY. 


41 


which  glisten  brightly  in  the  sunshine,  whe^e  they  are  wet  by  tiny 
streams  flowing  down.  On  the  nearest  of  these  is  a  very  curious  resem- 
blance to  the  head  and  shoulders  of  a  horse  in  the  act  of  rearing,  occa- 
sioned by  a  white  incrustation  on  the  face  of  the  cliff.  This  accident 
gives  to  it  the  name  of  White  Horse  Ledge.  All  marriageable  ladies, 
maiden  or  widow,  run  out  to  look  at  it,  in  consequence  of  the  belief  cur- 
rent in  New  England  that  if,  after  seeing  a  white  horse,  you  count  a 
hundred,  the  first  gentleman  you  meet  will  be  your  future  husband ! 
Underneath  this  clifT  a  charming  little  lake  lies  hid. 

Next  beyond  is  the  Cathedral  Ledge,  so  called  from  the  curious  rock 
cavity  it  contains ;  and  still  farther  up  the  valley  is  Humphrey's  Ledge, 
one  of  the  finest  rock-studies  of  them  all  when  we  stand  underneath  it. 


illL    I.LIJOL.-.,   .NuKill    (.' 


But  the  reader  now  has  a  general  acquaintance  with  North  Conway,  and 
with  its  topography.  He  begins  his  study  of  mountain  beauty  in  a 
spirit  of  loving  enthusiasm,  which  leads  him  on  and  on  to  the  ripeness 
of  an  education  achieved  by  simply  throwing  himself  upon  the  bosom 
of  indulgent  Nature,  putting  the  world  as  far  as  possible  behind  him. 

But  now  from  these  masses  of  hard  rock  let  us  turn  once  more  to 
the  valley,  where  the  rich  intervales  spread  an  exhaustless  feast  for  the 
eye.  If  autumn  be  the  season,  the  vase -like  elms,  the  stacks  of  yellow 
corn,  the  golden  pumpkins  looking  like  enormous  oranges,  the  floor- 
cloth of  green  and  gold  damasked  with  purple  gorse  and  coppice,  give 
the  idea  of  an  immense  table  groaning  beneath  its  luxurious  weight  of 
fruit  and  flowers. 


42  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

Turn  now  to  the  mountain  presiding  with  such  matchless  grace  and 
dignity  over  the  village.  Kearsargc,  in  the  twilight,  deserves,  like  Lo- 
renzo di  Medicis,  to  be  called  "  the  magnificent."  The  yellow  and 
orange  foliage  looks,  for  all  the  world,  like  a  golden  shower  fallen  upon 
it.  The  gray  ledges  at  the  apex,  which  the  clear,  yellow  light  renders 
almost  incandescent,  are  far  more  in  liarmony  with  the  rest  of  the  moun- 
tain than  in  the  vernal  season. 

Are  we  yet  in  sympathy  with  that  free-masonry  of  art  through  which 
our  eminent  landscape-painters  recognized  here  the  true  picturesque 
point  of  view  of  the  great  mountains,  the  effective  contrasts  and  har- 
monious ensemble  of  the  near  scenery — the  grandest  allied  with  the  hum- 
blest objects  of  nature.''  One  cannot  turn  in  any  direction  without  rec- 
ognizing a  picture  he  has  seen  in  the  studios,  or  in  the  saloons  of  the 
clubs. 

The  first  persons  I  saw  on  the  platform  of  the  railway-station  were 
my  quondam  companions,  the  colonel  and  George.  We  met  like 
friends  who  had  parted  only  half  an  hour  before.  During  dinner  it 
was  agreed  that  we  should  pass  our  afternoon  among  the  cliffs.  This 
arrangement  appeared  very  judicious ;  the  distance  is  short,  and  the 
attractions  many. 

We  accordingly  set  out  for  the  ledges  at  three  in  the  afternoon. 
The  weather  did  not  look  promising,  to  be  sure,  but  we  decided  it  suffi- 
ciently so  for  this  promenade  of  three  or  four  hours. 

While  en  route,  let  me  mention  a  discovery.  One  morning,  while  sit- 
ting on  the  piazza  of  the  Kearsarge  House  enjoying  the  dreamy  influ- 
ence of  the  warm  atmosphere,  which  spun  its  soft,  gossamer  web  about 
the  mountains,  I  observed  a  peculiar  shadow  thrown  by  a  jutting  mass 
of  the  Cathedral  Ledge  upon  a  smooth  surface,  which  exactly  resembled 
a  human  figure  standing  upright.  I  looked  away,  then  back  again,  to 
see  if  I  was  not  the  victim  of  an  illusion.  No,  it  was  still  there.  Now 
it  is  always  there.  The  head  and  upper  part  of  the  body  were  inclined 
slightly  forward,  the  legs  perfectly  formed.  At  ten  every  forenoon, 
punctual  to  the  hour,  this  phantom,  emerging  from  the  rock,  stands, 
fi.xed  and  motionless,*  as  a  statue,  in  its  niche.  .\t  every  turn  of  the 
sun,  this  shade  silently  interrogates  the  feverish  activity  that  has  re- 
placed the  silence  of  ages.  One  day  or  another  I  shall  demand  of  my 
phantom  what  it  has  witnessed. 

The  road  we  followed  soon  turned  sharply  away  from  the  main  street 


N  O  R  Til    C  O  N  li'AV.  43 

of  the  village,  to  the  left,  and  in  a  few  rods  more  plunged  into  the  Saco, 
leaving  us  standing  on  the  bank,  looking  askance  at  a  wide  expanse  of 
water,  choked  with  bowlders,  around  which  the  swift  current  whirled  and 
foamed  with  rage.  We  decided  it  too  shallow  to  swim,  but  doubted  if 
it  was  not  too  deep  to  ford.     We  had  reached  our  Rubicon. 

"  We  must  wade,"  said  the  colonel,  with  decision. 

"  Precisely  my  idea,"  assented  George,  beginning  to  unlace  his  shoes. 

I  put  my  hand  in  the  river.     Ugh !  it  was  as  cold  as  ice. 

Having  assured  ourselves  no  one  saw  us,  we  divested  ourselves  of 
shoes,  stockings,  pantaloons,  and  drawers.  We  put  our  stockings  in  our 
pockets,  disposed  our  clothing  in  a  roll  over  the  shoulder,  as  soldiers  do 
on  the  march,  tied  our  shoes  together,  and  hung  them  around  our  necks. 
Then,  placing  our  hands  upon  each  others'  shoulders,  as  I  have  seen 
gymnasts  do  in  a  circus,  we  entered  the  river,  like  candidates  for  bap- 
tism, feeling  our  way,  and  catching  our  breath. 

"  Sans-culottes"  suo;orested  the  colonel,  who  knew  a  little  French. 

"  Kit-kats,"  added  George,  who  knows  somethina;  of  art,  as  the  water 
rose  steadily  above  our  knees. 

The  treacherous  bowlders  tripped  us  up  at  every  step,  so  that  one  or 
the  other  was  constantly  floundering,  like  a  stranded  porpoise  in  a  frog- 
pond.  But,  thanks  to  our  device,  we  reached  the  middle  of  the  river 
without  anything  worse  than  a  few  bruises.  Here  we  were  fairly  stop- 
ped. The  water  was  waist-deep,  and  the  current  every  moment  threat- 
ened to  lift  us  from  our  feet.     How  foolish  we  looked ! 

Advance  or  retreat  1  That  was  the  question.  One  pointed  up 
stream,  another  down ;  while,  to  aggravate  the  situation,  rain  began  to 
patter  around  us.  In  two  minutes  the  river  was  steaming.  George, 
who  is  a  great  infant,  suggested  putting  our  hands  in  our  pockets,  to 
keep  them  warm,  and  our  clothes  in  the  river,  to  keep  them  dry. 

"  By  Jove !"  ejaculated  the  colonel,  "  the  river  is  smoking." 

"  Let  us  join  the  river,"  said  George,  producing  his  cigar-case. 

Putting  our  heads  together  over  the  colonel's  last  match,  thus  form- 
ing an  antique  tripod  of  our  bodies,  we  succeeded  in  getting  a  light ; 
and  for  the  first  time,  I  venture  to  afifirm,  since  its'  waters  gushed  from 
the  mountains,  incense  ascended  from  the  bosom  of  the  Saco. 

"  I'm  freezing  !"  stuttered  George. 

I  was  pushing  forward,  to  cut  the  dilemma  short,  when  the  colonel 
interposed  with, 


44 


THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MO  L'XTAIXS. 


"  Stop ;   I  want  to  tell  you  a  story." 

"  A  story  ?  here — in  the  middle  of  the  river  ?"  we  shouted. 

"  In  the  middle  of  the  river;  here — a  story!"  he  echoed. 

"  I  would  like  to  sit  down  while  I  listen,"  observed  George. 

Evidently  the  coldness  of  the  water  had  forced  the  blood  into  our 
friend's  head.  He  was  ill,  but  obstinate.  We  therefore  resigned  our- 
selves to  hear  him. 

"  This  river  and  this  situation  remind  me  of  the  Potawatamies,"  he 
began. 

"Potawatamies!"  we  echoed,  witli  chattering  teeth.     "Go  on;  go  on." 

"When  I  was  on  the  Plains,"  continued  the  colonel,  "  I  passed  some 
time  among  those  Indians.  During  my  stay,  the  chief  invited  me  to 
accompany  him  on  a  buffalo-hunt.  I  accepted  on  the  spot;  for  of  all 
things  a  buffalo-hunt  was  the  one  I  was  most  desirous  of  seeing.  We 
set  out  at  daybreak  the  next  morning.  After  a  few  hours"  march,  we 
came  to  a  stream  between  deep  banks,  and  flowing  with  a  rapid  current, 
like  this  one — " 

"  Go  on  ;  go  on  !"  we  shiveringly  articulated. 

"At  a  gesture  from  the  chief,  a  young  squaw  dismounted  from  her 
pony,  advanced  to  the  edge  of  the  stream,  and  began,  timidly,  to  wade 
it.  When  she  hesitated,  as  she  did  two  or  three  times,  the  chief  said 
something  which  encouraged  her  to  proceed.  All  at  once  she  stopped, 
threw  up  her  arms,  and  screamed  something  in  the  Indian  dialect;  at 
which  all  the  braves  burst  into  a  loud  laugh,  the  squaws  joining  in. 

" '  What  does  she  say  ?'  I  asked  of  the  chief. 

"'Up  to  the  middle,"  he  replied,  pushing  his  pony  into  the  stream." 

The  stream  grew  shallower,  so  that  we  soon  emerged  from  the  water 
upon  the  opposite  bank.  Here  we  poured  the  water  from  our  shoes, 
and  resumed  our  wet  clothing.  Everything  was  cooled,  except  our 
ardor. 

As  we  approached  nearer,  the  ledges  were  full  of  grim  recesses,  rude 
rock -niches,  and  traversed  by  perpendicular  cracks  from  brow  to  base. 
"  Take  care !"  I  shouted ;  "  there  is  a  huge  piece  of  the  cliff  just  ready 
to  fall." 

In  some  places  the  rock  is  sheer  and  smooth,  in  others  it  is  broken 
regularly  down,  for  half  its  whole  height,  to  where  it  is  joined  by  rude 
buttresses  of  massive  granite.  The  lithe  maples  climb  up  the  steepest 
ravines,  but  cannot  pass  the  waste  of  sheer  rock  stretching  between  them 


NORTH    CONWAY. 


45 


and  the  firs,  which  look  down  over  the  brink  of  the  precipice.  Rusted 
purple  is  the  prevailing  color,  blotched  here  and  there  with  white,  like 
the  drip  oozing  from  limestone.  We  soon  emerged  on  the  shore  of 
Echo  Lake. 

Hovering  under  the  great  precipices,  which  lie  heavily  shadowed  on 
its  glossy  surface,  are  gathered  the  waters  flowing  from  the  airy  heights 
above — the  little  rills,  the  rivulets,  the  cascades.  The  tremendous  shadow 
the  cliff  flings  down  seems  lying  deep  in  the  bosom  of  the  lake,  as  if 
perpetually  imprinted  there.  Slender  birches,  brilliant  foliage,  were  dain- 
tily etched  upon  the  surface,  like  arabesques  on  polished  steel.  The 
water  is  perfectly  transparent,  and  without  a  ripple.  Indeed,  the  breezes 
playing  around  the  summit,  or  humming  in  the  tree-tops,  seem  forbidden 


ECHO  LAKE,  NORTH  CONWAY. 


to  enter  this  haunt  of  Dryads.  The  lake  laps  the  yellow  strand  with  a 
light,  fluttering  movement.     The  place  seems  dedicated  to  silence  itself. 

To  destroy  this  illusion,  a  man  came  out  of  a  booth  and  touched  off 
a  small  cannon.  The  effect  was  like  knocking  at  half  a  dozen  doors  at 
once.  And  the  silence  which  followed  seemed  all  the  deeper.  Then 
the  aged  rock  was  pelted  with  questions,  and  made  to  jeer,  laugh,  men- 
ace, or  curse  by  turns,  or  all  at  once.  How  grandly  it  bore  all  these 
petty  insolences !  How  presumptuous  in  us  thus  to  cover  its  hoary 
front  with  obloquy !  We  could  never  get  the  last  word.  We  did  not 
even  come  off  in  triumph.  How  ironically  the  mountain  repeated, 
"  Who  are  you  ?"  and  "  What  am  I !"'  With  what  energy  it  at  last  vocif- 
erated, "  Go  to  the  devil !"     To  the  Devil's  Den  we  accordingly  go. 

Following  a  woodland  path  skirting  the  base   of  the   cliffs,  we  were 


46  THE     HEART    OE    THE     WHITE    MOUXTAINS. 

very  soon  before  the  entrance  of  the  Devil's  Uen,  formed  by  a  huge 
piece  of  the  cliff  falling  upon  other  detached  fragments  in  such  a  way 
as  to  leave  an  aperture  large  enough  to  admit  fifty  persons  at  once.  A 
ponderous  mass  divides  the  cavern  into  two  chambers,  one  of  which  is 
light,  airy,  and  spacious,  the  other  dark,  gloomy,  and  contracted — a  mere 
hole.  This  might  well  have  been  the  lair  of  the  bears  and  panthers 
formerly  roaming,  unmolested,  these  woods. 

The  Cathedral  is  a  recess  higher  up  in  the  same  cliff,  hollowed  out 
by  the  cleaving  off  of  the  lower  rock,  leaving  the  upper  portion  of  the 
precipice  overhanging.  The  top  of  the  roof  is  as  high  as  a  tall  tree. 
Some  maples  that  have  grown  here  since  the  outer  portion  of  the  rock 
fell,  assist,  with  their  straight -limbed,  columnar  trunks,  the  resemblance 
to  a  chancel.  A  little  way  off  this  cavity  has  really  the  appearance  of  a 
gigantic  shell,  like  those  fossils  seen  imbedded  in  subterranean  rocks. 
We  did  not  miss  here  the  delicious  glimpses  of  Kearsarge,  and  of  the 
mountains  across  the  valley  which,  now  that  the  sun  came  out,  were  all 
in  brilliant  light,  while  the  cool  afternoon  shadows  already  wrapped  the 
woods  about  us  in  twilight  tiloom. 

Still  farther  on  we  came  upon  a  fine  cascade  falling  down  a  long, 
irregular  staircase  of  broken  rock.  One  of  these  steps  extends,  a  solid 
mass  of  granite,  more  than  a  hundred  feet  across  the  bed  of  the  stream, 
and  is  twenty  feet  high.  Unless  the  brook  is  full,  it  is  not  a  single  sheet 
we  see,  but  twenty,  fifty  crvstal  streams  gushing  or  spirting  from  the 
grooves  they  ha\e  channelled  in  the  hard  granite,  and  falling  into  basins 
they  have  hollowed  out.  It  is  these  curious,  circular  stone  cavities, 
out  of  which  the  freshest  and  cleanest  water  constantly  pours,  that  give 
to  the  cascade  the  name  of  Diana's  Baths.  The  water  never  dashes  it- 
self noisily  down,  but  slips,  like  oil,  from  the  rocks,  with  a  pleasant, 
purling  sound  no  single  word  of  our  language  will  correctly  describe. 
From  here  we  returned  to  the  village  in  the  same  way  that  we  came.' 

The  wild  and  bristlina:  little  mountain  ransje  on  the  east  side  of 
North  Conway  embodies  a  good  deal  of  picturesque  character.  It  is 
there  our  way  lies  to  Artists'  Falls,  which  are  on  a  brook  issuing  from 
these  Green  Hills.  I  found  the  walk,  following  its  windings,  more  re- 
munerative than  the  falls  themselves.  The  brook,  flowing  first  over 
a  smooth  granite   ledge,  collects   in  a  little  pool  below,  out  of  which   the 

'  The  Saco  has  since  been  bridged,  and  is  traversed  with  all  ease. 


NOR  TH    C  O N  IV A  V. 


47 


pure  water  filters  through  bowlders  and  among  glittering  pebbles  to  a 
gorge  between  two  rocks,  down  which  it  plunges.  The  beauty  of  this 
cascade  consists  in  its  waywardness.  Now  it  is  a  thin  sheet,  flowing 
demurely  along ;  now  it  breaks  out  in  uncontrollable  antics ;  and  at 
length,  as  if  tired  of  this  sport,  darts  like  an  arrow  down  the  rocky 
fissure,  and  is  a  mountain  brook  again. 

The  ascent  of  Kearsarge  and  of  the  Moats  fittingly  crowns  the  series 
of  excursions  which  are  the  most  attractive  feature  of  out-of-door  life  at 
North  Conway.  The  northern  peak  of  Moat  is  the  one  most  frequently 
climbed,  but  the  southern  affords  almost  equally  admirable  views  of  the 
Saco,  the  Ellis,  and  the  Swift  River  valleys,  with  the  mountain  chains 
enclosing  them.  The  prospect  here  is,  however,  much  the  same  as  that 
obtained  from  Chocorua,  which  is  seen  rising  beyond  the  Swift  River 
valley.  To  that  description  I  must,  therefore,  refer  the  reader,  who  is 
already  acquainted  with  its  principal  features. 

The  high  ridge  is  an  arid  and  desolate  heap  of  summits  stripped 
bare  of  vegetation  by  fire.  When  this  fire  occurred,  twenty  odd  years 
ago,  it  drove  the  bears  and  rattlesnakes  from  their  forest  homes  in  great 
numbers,  so  that  they  fell  an  easy  prey  to  their  destroyers.  A  depres- 
sion near  its  centre  divides  the  ridge  in  two,  constituting,  in  effect,  two 
mountains.  We  crossed  the  range  in  its  whole  length,  and,  after  newly 
refreshing  ourselves  with  the  admirable  views  had  from  its  greater  ele- 
vation, descended  the  northern  peak  to  Diana's  Baths.  Probably  the 
most  striking  view  of  the  Moats  is  from  Conway.  Here  the  summits, 
thrown  into  a  mass  of  lawless  curves  and  blunted,  prong -like  protuber- 
ances, rear  a  blackened  and  weird -looking  cluster  on  high.  But  for  a 
wide  region  they  divide  with  Chocorua  the  honors  of  the  landscape,  con- 
stituting, at  Jackson  especially,  a  large  and  imposing  background,  mas- 
sively based  and  buttressed,  and  cutting  through  space  with  their 
trenchant  edge. 

In  the  winter  of  1S76,  finding  myself  at  North  Conway,  I  determined 
to  make  the  attempt  to  ascend  Mount  Kearsarge,  notwithstanding  two- 
thirds  of  the  mountain  were  shrouded  in  snow,  and  the  bare  shaft  con- 
stituting the  spire  sheathed  in  glittering  ice.  The  mountain  had  defin- 
itively gone  into  winter-quarters. 

I  was  up  early  enough  to  surprise,  all  at  once,  the  unwonted  and 
curiously -blended  effect  of  moonlight,  starlight,  and  the  twilight  of 
dawn.     The  new  moon,  with  the  old  in  her  arms,  balanced  her  shining 


48 


THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    AIOUXTAIXS. 


KEARSARGE   IN    WINTER. 


crescent  on  the  curved  peak  of  Moat  Mountain.  All  these  hi.i;li,  sur- 
roundinc;  peaks,  carved  in  marble  and  flooded  with  effulgence,  impres.sed 
the  spirit  with  that  mingled  awe  and  devotion  felt  among  the  antique 
monuments  of  some  vast  cemetery.  The  sight  thrilled  and  solemnized 
by  its  chaste  magnificence.  Glittering  stars,  snow-draped  summits,  black 
mountains  casting  sable  draperies  upon  the  dead  white  of  the  valley, 
constituted  a  scene  of  sepulchral  pomp  into  which  the  supernatural  en- 
tered unchallenged.  One  by  one  the  stars  went  out.  The  moon  grew 
pale.  A  clear  emerald,  overspreading  the  east,  was  reflected  from  lofty 
peak  and  tapering  spire. 


N  O  K  TH    C  O  N IV A  V.  4  9 

Day  broke  bright,  clear,  and  crisp.  There,  again,  was  the  same 
matchless  array  of  high  and  noble  summits,  sitting  on  thrones  of  alabas- 
ter whiteness.  While  the  moon  still  lingered  in  the  west,  the  broad  red 
disk  of  the  sun  rose  over  the  wooded  ridges  in  the  east.  So  sun  and 
moon,  monarch  and  queen,  saluted  each  other.  One  gave  the  watch- 
word, and  descended  behind  the  moated  mountain ;  the  other  ascended 
the  vacant  throne.  Thus  night  and  day  met  and  exchanged  majestic 
salutation  in  the  courts  of  the  morning. 

The  mercury  stood  at  three  degrees  below  zero  in  the  village,  when 
I  set  out  on  foot  for  the  mountain.  A  light  fall  of  snow  had  renewed 
the  Christmas  decorations.  The  trees  had  newly-leaved  and  blossomed. 
Beautiful  it  was  to  see  the  dark  old  pines  thick-flaked  with  new  snow, 
and  the  same  feathery  substance  lodged  on  every  twig  and  branchlet, 
tangle  of  vines,  or  tuft  of  tawny  yellow  grass.  Fir-trees  looked  like 
irigantic  azaleas ;  thickets  like  coral  groves.  Nothing  too  slender  or 
too  fragile  for  the  white  flight  to  alight  upon.  Talk  of  decorative  art ! 
Even  the  telegraph-wires  hung  in  broad,  graceful  festoons  of  white,  and 
the  poor  washer-womans  clothes-line  was  changed  into  the  same  imma- 
terial thing  of  beauty. 

The  ascent  proved  more  toilsome  than  I  had  anticipated,  as  my  feet 
broke  through  the  frozen  crust  at  every  step.  But  if  the  climb  had  been 
difficult  when  in  the  woods,  it  certainly  presented  few  attractions  when 
I  emerged  from  them  half  a  mile  below  the  summit.  I  found  the  sur- 
face of  the  bare  ledges,  which  now  continue  to  the  top  of  the  mountain, 
sheeted  in  ice,  smooth  and  slippery  as  glass. 

Many  a  time  have  I  laughed  heartily  at  the  feverish  indecision  of  a 
dog  when  he  runs  along  the  margin  of  a  pond  into  which  he  has  been 
urged  to  plunge.  He  turns  this  way  and  that,  whines,  barks,  crouches 
for  the  leap,  laps  the  water,  but  hesitates.  Imagine,  now,  the  same  ani- 
mal chasing  some  object  upon  slippery  ice,  his  feet  spread  widel}'  apart ; 
his  frantic  efforts  to  stop;  the  circles  described  in  the  air  by  his  tail. 
Well,  I  experienced  the  same  perplexity,  and  made  nearly  the  same  ridic- 
ulous evolutions. 

After  several  futile  attempts  to  advance  over  it,  and  as  often  finding 
myself  sliding  backward  with  entire  loss  of  control  of  my  own  move- 
ments, I  tried  the  rugged  ravine,  traversing  the  summit,  with  some  suc- 
cess, steadying  my  steps  on  the  iced  bowlders  by  grasping  the  bushes 
which  grew  there  among  clefts  of  the  rock.     But  this  way,  besides  being 

5 


50 


THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOL'XTAIXS. 


extremely  fatiguing,  was  decidedly  the  more  dangerous  of  the  two;  and 
I  was  glad,  after  a  brief  trial,  to  abandon  it  for  the  ice,  in  which,  here 
and  there,  detached  stones,  solidly  embedded,  furnished  points  of  sup- 
port, if  they  could  be  reached.  By  pursuing  a  zigzag  course  from  stone 
to  stone,  sometimes — like  a  pious  Moslem  approaching  the  tomb  of  the 
Prophet — upon  my  hands  and  knees,  and  shedding  tears  from  the  force 
of  the  wind,  I  succeeded  in  getting  over  the  ledges  after  an  hour's  ob- 
stinate battle  to  maintain  an  upright  position,  and  after  several  mishaps 
had  taught  me  a  degree  of  caution  closely  approaching  timidity.  By  far 
the  most  treacherous  ground  was  where  fresh  snow,  covering  the  smooth 
ice,  spread  its  pitfalls  in  the  path,  causing  me  several  times  to  meas- 
ure my  length;  but  at  last  these  obstacles  were  one  by  one  surmounted; 
I  groped  my  way,  foot  by  foot,  up  the  sharp  rise  of  the  pinnacle,  find- 
ing myself  at  the  front  door  of  the  house  which  is  so  conspicuous  an 
object  from  the  valley. 

Never  was  air  more  pure,  more  crisp,  or  more  transparent.  Be- 
sides, what  air  can  rival  that  of  winter.''  I  felt  myself  rather  floating 
than  walking.  Certainly  there  is  a  lightness,  a  clearness,  and  a  depth 
that  belongs  to  no  other  season.  At  no  other  season  do  we  behold  our 
native  skies  so  blue,  so  firm,  or  so  brilliant  as  when  the  limpid  ether, 
winnowed  by  the  fierce  north  wind  to  absolute  purity,  presents  objects 
with  such  marvellous  clearness,  precision,  and  fidelity,  that  we  hardly 
.persuade  ourselves  they  are  forty,  fifty,  or  a  hundred  miles  distant.  To 
realize  this  rare  condition  was  all  the  object  of  the  ascent  —  an  object 
attained  in  a  measure  far  beyond  any  anticipations  I  had  formed. 

As  may  easily  be  imagined,  the  immediate  effect  was  bewildering  in 
the  extreme.  In  the  first  place,  the  direct  rays  of  the  noonday  sun  cov- 
ered the  mountain -toj:)  with  dazzling  brilliancy.  The  eye  fairly  ached 
with  looking  at  it.  In  the  second,  the  intensity  of  the  blue  was  such  as 
to  give  the  idea  that  the  grand  expanse  of  sky  was  hard  frozen.  Noth- 
ins:  more  coldlv  brilliant  than  this  immense  azure  dome  can  be  con- 
ceived.  There  was  not  the  faintest  trace  of  a  cloud  anywhere ;  nothing 
but  this  splendid  void.  Under  this  high-vaulted  dome,  imagine  now  a 
vast  expanse  of  white  etched  with  brown — a  landscape  in  sepia.  Such 
was  the  general  effect. 

But  the  inexpressible  delight  of  having  all  this  admirable  scene  to 
one's  self!  Taine  asks, "  Can  anything  be  sweeter  than  the  certainty  of 
being  alone.'     In  any  widely  known  spot,  you  are  in  constant  dread  of 


NORTH    CONWAY.  51 

an  incursion  of  tourists ;  the  hallooing  of  guides,  the  loud-voiced  admi- 
ration, the  bustle,  whether  of  unfastening  horses,  or  of  unpacking  pro- 
visions, or  of  airing  opinions,  all  disturb  the  budding  sensation  ;  civiliza- 
tion recovers  its  hold  upon  you.  But  here,  what  security  and  what 
silence!  nothing  that  recalls  man;  the  landscape  is  just  what  it  has  been 
these  six  thousand  years." 

The  view  from  this  mountain  is  justly  admired.  Stripped  of  life  and 
color,  I  found  it  sad,  pathetic  even.  Dead  white  and  steel  blue  rudely 
repulsed  the  sensitive  eye.  The  north  wind,  cold  and  cutting,  drove  me 
to  take  shelter  under  glaring  rocks.  The  cracking  of  ice  first  on  one 
side,  then  on  the  other,  diverted  the  attention  from  the  landscape,  as  if 
the  mountain  was  continually  snapping  its  fingers  in  disdain.  I  had 
constantly  the  feeling  that  some  one  or  some  thing  was  at  my  elbow. 
What  childishness !  But  where  now  was  the  lavish  summer,  the  bar- 
baric splendors  of  autumn — its  arabesques  of  foliage,  its  velvet  shadows, 
its  dappled  skies,  its  glow,  mantling  like  that  of  health  and  beauty }  All- 
pervading  gloom  and  defoliation  were  rendered  ten  times  more  melan- 
choly by  the  splendid  glare.  Winter  flung  her  white  shroud  over  the 
land  to  hide  the  repulsiveness  of  death. 

I  looked  across  the  valley  where  Moat  Mountain  reared  its  magnifi- 
cent dark  wave.  Passing  to  the  north  side,  the  eye  wandered  over  the 
wooded  summits  to  the  silvery  heap  of  Washington,  to  which  frozen, 
rose-colored  mists  were  clinging.  A  great  ice-cataract  rolled  down  over 
the  edge  of  Tuckerman's  Ravine,  its  wave  of  glittering  emerald.  It 
shone  with  enchanting  brilliancy,  cheating  the  imagination  with  the  idea 
that  it  moved ;  that  the  thin,  spectral  vapor  rose  from  the  depths  of  the 
ice-cold  gorge  below.  There  gaped,  wide  open,  the  enormous  hole  of 
Carter  Notch;  there  the  pale-blue  Saco  wound  in  and  out  of  the  hills, 
with  hamlets  and  villages  strung  along  its  serpentine  course ;  and,  as  the 
river  grows,  villages  increase  to  towns,  towns  to  cities.  There  was  the 
sea  sparkling  like  a  plain  of  quicksilver,  with  ponds  and  lakes  innumer- 
able between.  There,  in  the  south-west,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 
was  Monadnock  demanding  recognition  ;  and  in  the  west,  Moosehillock, 
Lafayette,  Carrigain  peaks,  lifted  with  calm  superiority  above  the  chaos 
of  mountains,  like  higher  waves  of  a  frozen  sea.  Finally,  there  were  the 
snow-capped  summits  of  the  great  range  seen  throughout  their  whole 
extent,  sunning  their  satin  sides  in  indolent  enjoyment. 

This  view  has  no  peer  in  thes^  mountains.     Indeed,  the  rnountain 


52  THE     HEART    OE    THE     WHITE     MO  LX TAINS. 

seems  expressly  placed  to  command  in  one  comprehensive  sweep  of  the 
eye  the  most  impressive  features  of  any  mountain  landscape.  Being  a 
peak  of  the  second  order  —  that  is  to  say,  one  not  dominating  all  the 
chains  —  while  it  does  not  unfold  the  topography  of  the  region  in  its 
whole  extent,  it  is  sufificiently  elevated  to  permit  the  spectator  to  enjov 
that  increasing  grandeur  with  which  the  distant  ranges  rise,  tier  upon 
tier,  to  their  great  central  spires,  without  lessening  materially  their  lofti- 
ness, or  the  peculiar  and  varied  expression  of  their  contours.  The  peak 
of  Kearsarge  peeps  down  over  one  shoulder  into  New  Hampshire,  over 
the  other  into  Maine.  It  looks  straight  up  through  the  open  door  of 
the  Carter  Notch,  and  boldly  stares  Washington  in  the  face.  It  sees 
the  sun  rise  from  the  ocean,  and  set  behind  Mount  Lafayette.  It 
patronizes  Moat,  measures  itself  proudly  with  Chocorua,  and  maintains  a 
distant  acquaintance  with  Monadnock.  It  is  a  handsome  mountain,  and, 
as  such,  is  a  general  favorite  with  the  ladies  and  the  artists.  Like  a 
careful  shepherd,  it  every  morning  scans  the  valleys  to  see  that  none  of 
its  flock  of  villages  has  wandered.  For  these  villagers  it  is  a  sun-dial, 
a  weather-vane,  an  almanac ;  for  the  wayfarer,  a  sure  guide ;  and  for  the 
poet,  a  mountain  with  a  soul. 

The  cold  was  intense,  the  wind  piercing.  On  its  north  side  the 
house  was  deeply  incrusted  with  ice-spars — windows  and  all.  I  feel  that 
only  scant  justice  can  be  done  to  their  wondrous  beauty.  All  the 
scrubby  bushes  growing  out  of  interstices  of  the  crumbling  summit — wee 
twic  and  slender  filament  —  were  stemmed  with  ice;  while  the  rocks 
bristled  with  countless  frost  feathers.  With  my  pitch -cakes  and  a  few 
twigs  I  lighted  a  fire,  which  might  be  seen  from  the  half-dozen  villages 
clustered  about  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  and  pleased  myself  with  imag- 
inine  the  astonishment  with  which  a  smoke  curling  upward  from  this 
peak  would  be  greeted  for  fifty  miles  around.  I  then  prepared  to  de- 
.scend — I  say  prepared  to  descend,  for  the  thing  at  once  so  easy  to  say 
and  .so  difficult  of  performance  suddenly  revived  the  recollection  of  the 
hazardous  scramble  up  the  ledges,  and  made  it  seem  child's  play  by  com- 
parison. For  a  brief  hour  I  had  forgotten  all  this.  However,  go  down 
I  must.  l')ut  how?  The  first  step  on  the  ice  threatened  a  descent  more 
rapid  than  Hesh  and  blood  could  calmly  contemplate.  I  had  no  hatchet 
to  cut  steps  in  the  ice ;  no  rope  to  attach  to  the  rocks,  and  thus  lower 
myself,  as  is  practised  in  crossing  the  glaciers  of  the  Alps ;  and  there  was 
no  foothold.     For  a  moment   I  seriously  thought  of  forcing  an  entrance 


NORTH    CONWAY 


53 


into  the  house,  and,  making  a  signal  of  distress,  resign  myself  to  the 
possibility  of  help  from  below.  But  while  sitting  on  a  rock  looking 
blankly  at  the  glassy  declivity  stretching  down  from  the  summit,  a 
bright  idea  came  to  my  aid.  I  remembered  having  read  in  Bourrienne's 
"Memoirs"  that  Bonaparte  —  the  great  Bonaparte  —  was  forced  to  slide 
tlown    the    summit    of  the    Great    St.  Bernard    seated,  while    makintr    his 


SLIDIM;    IIOWN    KEARSARC.E. 


famous  passage  of  the  Alps.  Yes,  the  great  Corsican  really  advanced  to 
the  conquest  of  Italy  in  this  undignified  posture.  But  never  did  great 
example  find  more  unworthy  imitator.  Seating  myself,  as  the  Little  Cor- 
poral had  done,  using  my  staff  as  a  rudder,  and  steering  for  protruding 
stones  in  order  to  check  the  force  of  the  descent  from  time  to  time,  I 
slid   down   with   a  celerity  the   very   remembrance    of   which   makes   my 


54  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MO  CWTA/XS. 

head  swim,  arriving  safe,  but  breathless  and  much  astonished,  at  the 
first  irregular  patch  of  snow.  The  pleasure  of  standing  erect  on  some- 
thing the  feet  could  grasp  was  one  not  to  be  translated  into  words. 

Upon  reaching  the  hotel,  I  procured  another  pair  of  pantaloons  of 
my  host,  and  some  court-plaster  from  the  village  apothecarw  If  any  of 
my  readers  think  my  dignity  compromised,  I  beg  him  to  remember  the 
example  of  the  great  Napoleon,  and  his  famous  expedient  for  circum- 
venting the  Great  St.  Bernard. 


FROM    KEARSARGE     TO     CARRIGAIN.  55 


VI. 

FROM    KEARSARGE    TO    CARRIGAIN. 

Raleigh. — "  Fain  would   I  climb,  but  that  I  fear  to  fall." 

Queen  Elizabeth. — "  If  thy  heart  fail  thee,  climb  thou  not  at  all." 

AFTER  the  storm,  we  had  a  fine  lunar  bow.  The  corona  in  the 
centre  was  a  clear  silver,  the  outer  circle  composed  of  pale  green 
and  orange  fires.  Over  the  moon's  disk  clouds  swept  a  continuous 
stormy  flight.  The  great  planet  resembled  a  splendid  decoration  hung 
high  in  the  heavens. 

Having  now  progressed  to  terms  of  easy  familiarity  with  the  village, 
it  was  decided  to  pay  our  respects  to  the  Intervale,  which  unites  it  with 
the  neighboring  town  of  Bartlett. 

The  road  up  the  valley  first  skirts  a  wood,  and  through  this  wood 
are  delicious  glimpses  of  Mount  Adams.  During  the  heat  of  the  day  or 
cool  of  the  evening  this  extensive  and  beautiful  forest  has  always  been  a 
favorite  haunt.  Tall,  athletic  pines,  that  bend  in  the  breeze  like  whale- 
bone, lift  their  immense  clusters  of  impenetrable  foliage  on  high.  The 
sighs  of  lovers  are  softly  echoed  in  their  green  tops ;  voices  and  laughter 
issue  from  it.  We,  too,  will  swina;  our  hammock  here,  and  breathe  the 
healing  fragrance  that  is  so  grateful. 

In  a  little  enclosure  of  rough  stone,  on  the  Bigelow  place,  lie  the 
remains  of  the  ill-fated  Willey  family,  who  were  destroyed  by  the  memo- 
rable slide  of  1S26.    The  inscription  closes  with  this  not  too  lucid  figure: 

"We  gaze  around,  we  read  their  monument; 
We  sigh,  and  when  we  sigh  we  sink." 

Where  the  high  terrace,  making  one  grand  sweep  to  the  right,  again 
unveils  the  same  superb  view  of  the  great  summits,  now  wholly  unob- 
structed by  houses  or  groves,  we  halt  before  that  picture,  unrivalled  in 
these  mountains,  not  surpassed,  perhaps,  upon  earth,  and  which  we  never 


56 


THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAIXS. 


CuNUAV    MEADOWS. 


tire  of  gazing  upon.      Its  most  salient        ■',;'• 
features  have  already  been  described ; 
but  here  in  their  very  midst,  from  llicir 
very    heart,  nature    seems    to    have    snatched 
a  garden-spot  from  the  haggard  mountains  arrested  in  their  advance  by 
the  command,  "  Thus  far,  and  no  farther!"     The  elms,  all  grace,  all  refine- 
ment of  form,  bend  before  the  fierce  blasts  of  winter,  but  stir  not.     The 
frozen   east   wind    Hies   shrieking   through,  as    if  to  tear  them   limb   from 
liml).      The  ground   is  littered   witli    their   branches.      They   bow   meekly 
before  its  rage,  but  stir  not.     Really,  they  seem  .so  many  sentinels  jeal- 
ously guarding  that  repose  of  which  the  vale  is  so  eloquently  the  expres- 
sion.    The  vale  regards  the  stormv  summits  around  with  the  unconcern 
of  perfect  security.     It  is  rest  to  look  at  it. 

Again   we    scan    the   great   peaks   which    in    clear  days   come   boldly 


FROM    KEARSARGE     TO    CARR  /GAIN.  57 

down  and  stand  at  our  \'ery  doors,  but  on  liazy  ones  remove  to  a  vast 
distance,  keeping  vaguely  aloof  day  in  and  da)'  out.  Sometimes  they 
are  in  the  sulks,  sometimes  bold  and  forward.  By  turns  they  are  gra- 
ciously condescending,  or  tantalizingly  incomprehensible.  One  time 
they  muffle  themselves  in  clouds  from  head  to  foot,  so  we  cannot  detect 
a  suggestive  line  or  a  contour;  another,  throwing  off  all  disguise,  they 
expose  their  most  secret  beauties  to  the  free  gaze  of  the  multitude. 
This  is  to  set  the  beholder's  blood  on  fire  with  the  passion  to  climb  as 
high  as  those  gray  shafts  of  everlasting  rock  that  so  proudly  survey 
the  creeping  leagues  beneath  them. 

Nowhere  is  the  unapproachable  grandeur  of  Mount  Washington 
more  fully  manifested  than  here.  This  large  and  impressive  view  is  at 
once  suggestive  of  that  glorious  pre-eminence  always  associated  with 
high  mountains.  There  are  mountains,  respectable  ones  too,  in  the  mid- 
dle distance ;  but  over  these  the  great  peak  lords  it  with  undisputed 
sway.  The  bold  and  firm,  though  gradual,  lines  of  ascent  culminating 
at  the  apex,  extend  over  leagues  of  sky.  After  a  clear  sunset,  Mount 
Washington  takes  the  same  dull  lead-color  of  the  clouds  hoverins  like 
enormous  night-birds  over  its  head. 

North  Conway  permits,  to  the  tourist,  a  choice  of  two  very  agreeable 
excursions,  either  of  which  may  be  made  in  a  day,  although  they  could 
profitably  occupy  a  week.  One  is  to  follow  the  course  of  the  Saco, 
through  the  great  Notch,  to  Fabyans,  where  you  are  on  the  westward 
side  of  the  great  range,  and  where  you  take  the  rail  to  the  summit  of 
Mount  Washington.  The  other  excursion  is  to  diverge  from  the  Saco 
Valley  three  or  four  miles  from  North  Conway,  ascending  the  valley  of 
Ellis  River — one  of  the  large  affluents  of  the  Saco — through  the  Pink- 
ham  Notch  to  the  Glen  House,  where  you  are  exactly  under  the  eastern 
foot  of  Mount  Washington,  and  may  ascend  it,  by  the  carriage-road,  in 
a  coach -and -four.  We  had  already  chosen  the  first  route,  and  as  soon 
as  the  roads  were  a  little  settled  we  began  our  march. 

The  storm  was  over.  The  keen  north  wind  drove  the  mists  in  utter 
rout  before  it.  Peak  after  peak  started  out  of  the  clouds,  glowered  on 
us  a  moment,  and  then  muffled  his  enormous  head  in  fleecy  vapor.  The 
clouds  seemed  thronged  with  monstrous  apparitions,  struggling  fiercely 
with  the  gale,  which  in  pure  wantonness  tore  aside  the  magic  drapery 
that  rendered  them  invisible,  scattering  its  tattered  rags  far  and  wide 
over  the  valley. 


58 


THE     HEART    OF     THE     WHITE     .]f  O  U  .Y  TA  I X  S . 


Now  the  sun  entered  upon  the  work  begun  by  the  wind.  Quicker 
tlian  thought,  a  ray  of  liquid  flame  transfixed  the  vapors,  flashed  upon 
the  vale,  and,  flying  from  summit  to  summit,  kindled  them  with  new- 
born splendor.  One  would  have  said  a  flaming  javelin,  hurled  from 
high  heaven,  had  just  cleft  its  dazzling  way  to  earth.  The  mists  slunk 
away  and  hid  themselves.  The  valley  was  inundated  with  golden  light. 
Even  the  dark  faces  of  the  cliffs  brightened  and  beamed  upon  the  vale, 


"y?v.  ^i'"^ 


where  the  bronzed  foliage  flut. 
tered,  and  the  river  leaped  for 
joy.     In  a   little   time  nothing 
was    left    but    scattered    clouds 
winging  their  way  toward  the  low- 
lands. 
Near  Glen  Station  is  one  of  those  curiosities — a  transported  bowlder 
— which  was   undoubtedly  left  while  on   its   travels   through   the   moun- 
tains, poised   upon    four   smaller   ones,  in   the   position    seen   in  the   en- 


liAKL  I.F.I  1-    HOUl.DKR. 


gravmg. 


Three  miles  below  the  village  of  Bartlett  we  stopped  before  a  farm- 
house, with  the  gable-end  toward  the  road,  to  inquire  the  distance  to  the 
next  tavern,  where  we  meant  to  pass  the  night.  A  gruff  voice  from  the 
inside  growled  something  by  way  of  reply ;  but  as  its  owner,  whoever 
he  might  be,  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  open  his  door,  the  answer  was 
unintelligible. 


FROM    KEARSARGE     TO    CAR R IGA/iV.  ^g 

"  The  churl !"  muttered  the  colonel.  "  I  have  a  great  mind  to  teach 
him  to  open  when  a  gentleman  knocks." 

"And  I  advise  you  not  to  try  it,"  said  the  voice  from  the  inside. 

The  one  thing  a  Kentuckian  never  shrinks  from  is  a  challenge.  He 
only  said,  "Wait  a  minute,"  while  putting  his  broad  shoulder  against 
the  door;  but  now  George  and  I  interfered.  Neither  of  us  had  any 
desire  to  signalize  our  entry  into  the  village  by  a  brawl,  and  after  some 
trouble  we  succeeded  in  pacifying  our  fire-eater  with  the  promise  to  stop 
at  this  house  on  our  way  back. 

"  I  shall  know  it  again,"  said  the  colonel,  looking  back,  and  nibbling 
his  long  mustache  with  suppressed  wrath  ;  "  something  has  been  spilled 
on  the  threshold — something  like  blood." 

We  laughed  heartily.  The  blood,  we  concluded,  was  in  the  col- 
onel's eyes. 

Some  time  after  nightfall  we  arrived  in  the  village,  having  put  thir- 
teen miles  of  road  behind  us  without  fatigue.  Our  host  received  us 
with  a  blazing  fire  —  what  fires  they  do  have  in  the  mountains,  to  be 
sure ! — a  pitcher  of  cider,  and  the  remark,  "  Don't  be  afraid  of  it,  gen- 
tlemen." 

All  three  hastened  to  reassure  him  on  this  point.  The  colonel  be- 
gan with  a  loud  smack,  and  George  finished  the  jug  with  a  deep  sigh. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  it,"  repeated  the  landlord,  returning  presently 
with  a  fresh  pitcher.     "  There  are  five  barrels  more  like  it  in  the  cellar." 

"  Landlord,"  cjuoth  George,  "  let  one  of  your  boys  take  a  mattress, 
two  blankets,  and  a  pillow  to  the  cellar.  I  intend  to  pass  the  night 
there." 

"  I  only  wish  your  well  was  full  of  it,"  said  the  colonel,  taking  a  sec- 
ond pull  at  the  jug,  and  making  a  second  explosion  with  his  lips. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  I,  "we  have  surely  entered  a  land  of  milk  and 
honey." 

"  You  shall  have  as  much  of  both  as  you  desire,"  said  our  host,  very 
affably.     "  Supper  is  ready,  gentlemen." 

After  supper  a  ^man  came  in  for  whom  I  felt,  upon  the  instant,  one 
of  those  secret  antipathies  which  are  natural  to  me.  The  man  was  an 
utter  stranger.     No  matter:  the  repugnance  seized  me  all  the  same. 

After  a  tour  of  the  tap-room,  and  some  words  with  our  landlord  in 
an  undertone,  the  stranger  went  out  with  the  look  of  a  man  who  had 
asked  for  something  and  had  been  refused. 


6o  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

"  Where  liavc  I  heard  that  man's  voice  ?"  said  the  colonel,  thought- 
fully. 

Our  landlord  is  one  of  the  most  genial  to  be  found  among  the  moun- 
tains. While  sitting  over  the  fire  during  the  evening,  the  conversation 
turned  upon  the  primitive  simplicity  of  manners  remarked  among  moun- 
taineers in  general;  and  our  host  illustrated  it  with  this  incident: 

"  You  noticed,  perhaps,  a  man  who  left  here  a  few  moments  ago .''" 
he  began. 

We  replied  affirmatively.      It  was  my  antipathy. 

"Well,  that  man  killed  a  traveller  a  few  years  back." 

We  instinctively  recoiled.  The  air  seemed  tainted  with  the  murder- 
er's presence. 

"Yes;  dead  as  a  mutton,"  continued  the  landlord,  punching  the  logs 
reflectively,  and  filling  the  chimney  with  sparks.  "  Tiie  man  came  to  his 
house  one  dark  and  stormy  night,  and  asked  to  lie  admitted.  The  man 
of  the  house  flatly  refused.  The  stranger  pleaded  hard,  but  the  fellow 
ordered  him  away  with  threats.  Finding  entreaties  useless,  the  traveller 
began  to  grow  angry,  and  attempted  to  push  open  the  door,  which  was 
only  fastened  by  a  button,  as  the  custom  is.  The  man  of  the  house  said 
nothing,  but  took  his  gun  from  a  corner,  and  when  the  intruder  crossed 
the  threshold  he  put  three  slugs  through  him.  The  wounded  man  ex- 
pired on  the  threshold,  covering  it  with  his  blood." 

"  Murdered  him,  and  for  that .''  Come,  come,  you  are  joking !"  ejacu- 
lated George,  with  a  half  smile  of  incredulitv. 

"  Blowed  him  right  through,  just  as  1  tell  you,"  reiterated  the  nar- 
rator, without  heeding  the  doubt.  George's  question  implied. 

"  That  sounds  a  little  like  Old  Kentuck,"  observed  the  colonel,  coolly. 

"  Yes ;  but  listen  to  the  sequel,  gentlemen,"  resumed  the  landlord. 
"  The  murderer  took  the  dead  body  in  his  arms,  finding,  to  his  horror, 
that  it  was  an  acquaintance  with  whom  he  had  been  drinking  the  day 
before ;  he  took  up  the  body,  as  I  was  saying,  laid  it  out  upon  a  table, 
and  then  went  cpiietly  to  bed.  In  the  morning  he  very  honestly  exhib- 
ited the  corp.se  to  all  who  jxissed  his  door,  and  told  Jiis  stor}'  as  I  tell  it 
to  you.      I  had  it  from  his  own  lips." 

"  That  beats  Kentucky,"  asseverated  the  colonel.  For  my  own  part. 
I  believed  the  landlord  was  amusing  himself  at  our  expense. 

"  I  don't  know  about  Kentucky,"  observed  the  landlord  ;  "  I  was  never 
there  in  my  life;   but    1   do   know   that,  when   the  dead   man   was  buried. 


FROM    KEARSARGE     TO     CARRIGAIN.  6l 

the  man  who  killed  him  went  to  the  fnneral  like  any  curious  or  indiffer- 
ent spectator." 

This  was  too  much.  George  rose  from  his  chair,  and  began  to  be 
interested  in  a  placard  on  the  wall.  "  And  you  say  this  happened  near 
here  T'  he  slowly  incjuired ;  "  perhaps,  now,  you  could  show  us  the  very 
house .'"  he  finished,  dryly. 

"  Nothing  easier.  It's  only  three  miles  back  on  the  road  you  came. 
The  blood-stain  is  plain,  or  was,  on  the  threshold." 

We  exchanged  glances.  This  was  the  house  where  we  halted  to 
inquire  our  way.     The  colonel's  eyes  dilated,  but  he  said  nothing. 

"  But  was  there  no  trial  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Trial .?  oh  yes.  After  several  days  had  run  by,  somebody  thought 
of  that ;  so  one  morning  the  slayer  saddled  his  horse  and  rode  over  to 
the  county-seat  to  inquire  about  it.  He  was  tried  at  the  next  sessions, 
and  acquitted.  The  judge  charged  justifiable  homicide;  that  a  man's 
house  is  his  fort ;  the  jury  did  not  lea\'e  their  benches.  By-the-bye,  gen- 
tlemen, that  is  some  of  the  man's  cider  you  are  drinking." 

I  felt  decided  symptoms  of  revolt  in  my  stomach ;  George  made  a 
grimace,  and  the  colonel  threw  his  unfinished  a^lass  in  the  fire.  During: 
the  remainder  of  the  evening  he  rallied  us  a  good  deal  on  the  subject  of 
New  England  hospitality,  but  said  no  more  about  going  back  to  chas- 
tise the  man  of  the  red  house.' 

The  sun  rose  clear  over  the  right  shoulder  of  Kearsarge.  After 
breakfast  the  landlord  took  us  out  and  introduced  us  to  his  neighbors, 
the  mountains.  While  he  was  making  the  presentation  in  due  form,  I 
jotted  down  the  following,  which  has,  at  least,  the  merit  of  conciseness : 

Upper  Bartlett :  an  ellipse  of  fertile  land  ;  three  Lombardy  poplars ; 
a  river  murmuring  unseen  ;  a  wall  of  mountains,  with  Kearsarge  look- 
ing up,  and  Carrigain  looking  down  the  intervale.  Item  :  the  cider  is 
excellent. 

We  had  before  us  the  range  extending  between  Swift  River  and  the 
Saco,  over  which  I  looked  from  the  summit  of  Chocorua  straight  to 
Mount  Washington.      To    the    east   this    range   is  joined   with    the    out- 


'  The  sequel  to  this  strange  but  true  story  is  in  keeping  with  the  rest  of  its  horrible  de- 
tails. Perpetually  haunted  by  the  ghost  of  his  victim,  the  murderer  became  a  prey  to  remorse. 
Life  became  insupportable.  He  felt  that  he  was  both  shunned  and  abhorred.  Gradually  he 
fell  into  a  decline,  and  within  a  few  years  from  the  time  the  deed  was  committed  he  died. 


62      THE     HEART    OE    THE     W H J T E     MOUXTAINS. 

works  of  Moat.  Then  come  Table,  Bear,  Silver  Spring  (Bartlett  Hay- 
stack), and  Tremont,  in  the  order  named.  Then  comes  the  valley  of 
Sawyer's  River,  with  Carrigain  rising  between  its  walls  ;  then,  crossing 
to  the  north  side  of  the  Saco,  the  most  conspicuous  object  is  the  bold 
Hart's  Ledge,  between  which  and  Sawyer's  Rock,  on  the  opposite  bank. 
the  river  is  crowded  into  a  narrow  channel.  Ihe  mountain  behind  the 
hotel  is  Mount  Langdon,  with  Crawford  more  distant.  Observe  closely 
the  curious  configuration  of  this  peak.  Whether  we  go  up  or  down,  it 
nods  familiarly  to  us  from  every  point  of  approach. 

But  Kearsarge  and  Carrigain  are  the  grand  features  here.  One 
gives  his  adieu,  the  other  his  welcome.  One  is  the  perfection  of  sym- 
metry, of  grace ;  the  other  simply  demands  our  homage.  His  snowy 
crown,  dazzling  white  against  the  pure  blue,  was  the  badge  of  an  incon- 
testable superiority.  These  two  mountains  are  the  presiding  genii  of 
this  charming  intervale.  You  look  first  at  the  massive  lineaments  of 
one,  then  at  the  flowing  lines  of  the  other,  as  at  celebrated  men,  whose 
features  you  would  strongly  impress  upon  the  memory. 

From  the  village  street  we  saw  the  sun  go  down  behind  Mount  Car- 
rigain, and  touch  with  his  glittering  sceptre  the  crest  of  Hancock.  We 
looked  up  the  valley  dominated  by  the  giant  of  the  Pemigewasset  wil- 
derness with  feelings  of  high  respect  for  this  illustrious  hermit,  who  only 
deigns  to  show  himself  from  this  single  point,  and  whose  peak  long 
yielded  only  to  the  most  persevering  and  determined  climbers. 

Two  days  were  formerly  required  for  the  ascent  of  this  mountain,  but 
a  long  day  will  now  suffice,  thanks  to  the  path  constructed  under  the 
direction  of  the  Appalachian  Club.  The  mountain  is  four  thousand  si.\ 
hundred  and  twenty-five  feet  above  the  sea,  and  is  wooded  to  its  summit. 
The  valley  of  Sawyer's  River  drains  the  deep  basin  between  Carrigain 
and  Hancock,  entering  the  Saco  near  the  railroad  station  called  Liver- 
more.  The  lumbermen  have  now  penetrated  this  valley  to  the  foot  of 
the  mountain,  with  their  rude  lo<j;<ring  roads,  offering  a  wav  soon,  it  is 
hoped,  to  be  made  plainer  for  future  climbers  than  it  was  our  lot  to 
find  it. 

Thoroughly   imbued   with    the    spirit  of  the    mountains,  we    now    re- 

.  garded  distances   with   disdain,  and  fatic^ue   with    indifference.     We   had 

learned  to  make  our  toilets  in  the  stream,  and  our  beds  in  the  fragrant 

groves.      Truly,  the  bronzed  faces  that  peered  at  us  as   we  bent  over 

some  solemn,  pine-shaded  pool  were  not  those  we  had  been  accustomed 


FROM    KEARSARGE     TO     CARR IGAIN.  63 

to  seeing  at  home ;  but  having  solved  the  problem  of  man's  true  exist- 
ence, we  only  laughed  at  each  other's  tawny  countenances  while  shoul- 
dering our  packs  and  tightening  our  belts  for  the  day's  march. 

Leaving  Bartlett  at  an  early  hour,  we  turned  aside  from  the  highway 
a  little  beyond  the  bridge  which  spans  Sawyer's  River,  and  were  soon 
following  a  rough  and  stony  cart -way  ascending  the  banks  of  this 
stream,  which  thundered  along  its  rocky  bed,  making  the  woods  echo 
with  its  roar.  The  road  grew  rapidly  worse,  the  river  wilder,  the  forest 
gloomier,  until,  at  the  end  of  two  miles,  coming  suddenly  out  into  the 
sun,  we  entered  a  rude  street  of  unpainted  cabins,  terminating  at  some 
saw -mills.  This  hamlet,  which  to  the  artistic  eye  so  disadvantageously 
replaces  the  original  forest,  is  the  only  settlement  in  the  large  township 
of  Livermore.  Its  mission  is  to  ravage  and  lay  waste  the  adjacent 
mountains.  Notwithstanding  the  occupation  is  legitimate,  one  instinc- 
tively rebels  at  the  waste  around  him,  where  the  splendid  natural  forest, 
literally  hewed  and  hacked  in  pieces,  exposes  rudely  all  the  deformities 
of  the  mountains.  But  this  lost  hamlet  is  the  first  in  which  a  genuine 
emotion  of  any  kind  awaits  the  traveller.  Ten  to  one  it  is  like  noth- 
ing he  ever  dreamed  of ;  his  surprise  is,  therefore,  extreme.  The  men 
were  rough,  hardy-looking  fellows ;  the  women  appeared  contented,  but  as 
if  hard  work  had  destroyed  their  good  looks  prematurely.  Both  an- 
nounced, by  their  looks  and  their  manner,  that  the  life  they  led  was  no 
child's  play ;  the  men  spoke  only  when  addressed ;  the  women  stole  fur- 
tive glances  at  us ;  the  half-dressed  children  stopped  their  play  to  stare  at 
the  strangers.  Here  was  neither  spire  nor  bell.  One  cow  furnished  all 
the  milk  for  the  commonalty.  The  mills  being  shut,  there  was  no  sound 
except  the  river  plashing  over  the  rocks  far  down  in  the  gorge  below; 
and  had  I  encountered  such  a  place  on  the  sea-coast  or  the  frontier,  I 
should  at  once  have  said  I  had  stumbled  upon  the  secret  hold  of  outlaws 
and  smugglers,  into  which  signs,  grips,  and  passwords  were  necessary  to 
procure  admission.  To  me,  therefore,  the  hamlet  of  Livermore  was  a 
wholly  new  experience. 

From  this  hamlet  to  the  foot  of  the  mountain  is  a  long  and  uninter- 
esting tramp  of  five  miles  through  the  woods.  We  found  the  walking 
good,  and  strode  rapidly  on,  coming  first  to  a  wood-cutter's  camp  pitched 
on  the  banks  of  Carrigain  Brook,  and  ne.xt  to  the  clearing  they  had 
made  at  the  mountain's  foot.  Here  the  actual  work  of  the  ascent  began 
in  earnest. 


64     THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAJXS. 

Carrigain  is  solid,  compact,  massive.     It  is  covered  from  head  to  foot 

with  forest.  No  incident  of  the  way  diverts  the  attention  for  a  sin^ilc 
moment  from  the  severe  exertion  required  to  overcome  its  steeply  in- 
clined side  ;  no  breathing  levels,  no  restful  outlook.s,  no  gorges,  no  preci- 
pices, no  cascades  break  the  monotony  of  the  escalade.  We  conquer,  as 
Napoleon's  grenadiers  did,  by  our  legs.  It  is  the  most  inexorable  of 
mountains,  and  the  most  exasperating.  From  base  to  summit  vou  can- 
not obtain  a  cup  of  water  to  slake  your  thirst. 

Two  hours  of  this  brought  us  out  u])on  the  bare  summit  of  the  great 
northern  spur,  beyond  which  the  true  peak  rose  a  few  hundred  feet 
higher.  Carrigain,  at  once  the  desire  and  the  bugbear  of  climbers,  was 
beneath  our  feet. 

We  have  already  examined,  from  the  rocks  of  Chocorua,  the  situation 
of  this  peak.  We  then  entitled  it  the  Hub  of  the  White  Mountains.  It 
reveals  all  the  magnitude,  unfolds  the  topography  of  the  woody  wilder- 
ness stretching  between  the  .Saco  and  the  Pemigewasset  valleys.  As 
nearly  as  possible,  it  exliibits  the  same  amazing  profusion  of  unbroken 
forest,  here  and  there  darkly  streaked  by  hidden  watercourses,  as  wlien 
the  daring  foot  of  the  first  climber  pressed  the  unviolated  crest  of  the 
august  peak  of  W'ashington.  In  all  its  length  and  breadth  there  is  not 
one  object  that  suggests,  even  remotely,  the  presence  of  man.  W'e  saw 
not  even  the  smoke  of  a  hunter's  camp.  All  was  just  as  created;  an 
absolute,  savage,  unkempt  wilderness. 

Heavens,  what  a  bristling  arrav  of  dark  and  shafjsrv  mountains ! 
Now  and  then,  where  water  gleamed  out  of  their  hideous  depths,  a  great 
brilliant  eye  seemed  watching  us  from  afar.  We  knew  that  we  had  only 
to  look  up  to  see  a  dazzling  circlet  of  lofty  peaks  drawn  around  the  ho- 
rizon, chains  set  with  glittering  stones,  clusters  sparkling  with  antique 
crests;  still  we  could  not  withdraw  our  eyes  from  the  profound  abysses 
sunk  deep  in  the  bowels  of  the  land,  typical  of  the  uncovered  bed  of  the 
primeval  ocean,  sad  and  terrible,  from  which  that  ocean  seemed  only  to 
have  just  receded. 

But  who  shall  describe  all  this  solitary,  this  oppressive  grandeur.' 
and  what  language  portray  the  awfulness  of  these  untrodden  mountains.' 
Now  and  then,  high  up  their  bleak  summits,  a  patch  of  forest  had  been 
])lucked  up  by  the  roots,  or  shaken  from  its  hold  in  the  throes  of  the 
mountain,  laid  bare  a  long  and  glittering  scar,  red  as  a  half-closed  wound. 
Such  is  the  appearance  of  Mount  Lowell,  on  the  other  side  of  the  gap 


FROM    KEARSARGE     TO     CARRIGAIN.  65 

dividins  Carris;ain  from  the  Notch  mountains.  We  saw  where  the  dark 
slope  of  Mount  Willey  gives  birth  to  the  infant  Merrimacl:.  We  saw 
the  confluent  waters  of  this  stream,  so  Hght  of  foot,  speeding  through 
the  gloomy  defiles,  as  if  fear  had  given  them  wings.  We  saw  the  huge 
mass  of  Mount  Hancock  force  itself  slowly  upward  out  of  the  jiress. 
Unutterable  lawlessness  stamped  the  whole  region  as  its  own. 

That  I  have  thus  dwelt  upon  its  most  extraordinary  feature,  instead  of 
examining  the  landscape  in  detail,  must  suffice  for  the  intelligent  reader. 
I  have  not  the  temerity  to  coolly  put  the  dissecting-knife  into  its  heart. 
To  science  the  things  which  belong  to  science.  Besides,  to  the  man  of 
feeling  all  this  is  but  secondary.     We  are  not  here  to  make  a  chart. 

After  a  visit  to  the  high  summit,  where  some  work  was  done  in  the 
interest  of  future  climbers,  we  set  out  at  four  in  the  afternoon,  on  our 
return  down  the  mountain.  A  second  time  we  halted  on  the  spur  to 
glance  upward  at  the  heap  of  summits  over  which  Mount  Washington 
lifts  a  regular  dome.  The  long  line  of  peaks,  ascending  from  Craw- 
ford's, seems  approaching  it  by  a  succession  of  huge  steps.  It  was  after 
dark  when  we  saw  the  lights  of  the  village  before  us,  and  were  again 
warmly  welcomed  by  the  rousing  fire  and  smoking  viands  of  mine  host, 

6 


66  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MUUXTAIXS. 


VII. 

VALLEY    OF    THE    SACO. 

With  our  faint  heart  the  mountain  strives; 
Its  arms  outstretched,  the  Druid  wood 

Waits  with  its  benedicte. — Sir  Launfal. 

AT  eiglit  o'clock  in  the  morning  we  resumed  our  march,  with  the  in- 
tention of  reaching  Crawford's  the  same  evening.  The  day  was 
cold,  raw,  and  windy,  so  we  walked  briskly — sharp  air  and  cutting  wind 
acting  like  whip  and  spur. 

I  retain  a  vivid  recollection  of  this  morning.  Autumn  had  passed 
her  cool  hand  over  the  fevered  earth.  Soft  as  three -piled  velvet,  the 
green  turf  left  no  trace  of  our  tread.  The  skv  was  of  a  dazzling  blue, 
and  frescoed  with  light  clouds,  transparent  as  gauze,  pure  as  the  snow 
glistening  on  the  high  summits.  On  both  sides  of  us  audacious  moun- 
tains  braced  their  feet  in  the  valley;  while  others  mounted  over  their 
brawny  shoulders,  as  if  to  scale  the  heavens. 

But  what  shall  I  say  of  the  grand  harlequinade  of  nature  which  the 
valley  presented  to  our  view?  I  cannot  em])l()y  X'^ictor  Hugo's  odd 
simile  of  a  peacock's  tail ;  that  is  more  of  a  witticism  than  a  description. 
The  death  of  the  year  seemed  to  prefigure  the  glorious  and  surprising 
changes  of  color  in  a  dving  dolphin — putting  on  unparalleled  beauty  at 
the  moment  of  dissolution,  and  so  going  out  in  a  blaze  of  glory. 

P'rom  the  meagre  summits  enfiladed  by  the  north  wind,  and  where 
a  solitary  pine  or  cedar  intensified  the  desolation,  to  the  upper  forests, 
the  mountains  bristled  with  a  scanty  growth  of  dead  or  dying  trees. 
Those  scattered  birches,  high  up  the  mountain  side,  looked  like  quills 
on  a  jjorcupine's  back;  that  group,  glistening  in  the  morning  sun,  like 
the  pipes  of  an  immense  organ.  From  this  line  of  death,  which  vegeta- 
tion crossed  at  its  peril,  the  eye  dropped  down  over  a  limitless  forest  of 
dark  evergreen  spotted  with  bright  yellow.      The  effect  of  the  sunlight 


VALLEY    OF    THE     SACO.  67 

on  this  foliage  was  magical.  Myriad  flambeaux  illuminated  the  deep 
gloom,  doubling  the  intensity  of  the  sun,  emitting  ravs,  glowing,  resplen- 
dent. This  splendid  light,  which  the  heavy  masses  of  orange  seemed  to 
absorb,  gave  a  velvety  softness  to  the  lower  ridges  and  spurs,  covering 
their  hard,  angular  lines  with  a  magnificent  drapery.  The  lower  forests, 
the  valley,  were  one  vast  sea  of  color.  Here  the  bewildering  melange 
of  green  and  gold,  orange  and  crimson,  purple  and  russet,  produced  the 
effect  of  an  immense  Turkish  rug — the  colors  beins;  soft  and  rich,  rather 
than  vi\'id  or  brilliant.  This  quality,  the  blending  of  a  thousand  tints, 
the  dreamy  grace,  the  sumptuous  profusion,  the  inexpressible  tenderness, 
intoxicated  the  senses.  Earth  seemed  no  longer  earth.  We  had  en- 
tered a  garden  of  the  gods. 

From  time  to  time  a  scarlet  maple  flamed  up  in  the  midst  of  the 
forest,  and  its  red  foliage,  scattered  at  our  feet  by  the  wind,  glowed  like 
flakes  of  fire  beaten  from  an  anvil.  A  tangled  maze  of  color  changed 
the  road  into  an  avenue  bordered  with  rare  and  variegated  plants.  Au- 
tumn's bright  sceptre,  the  golden-rod,  pointed  the  way.  Blue  and  white 
daisies  strewed  the  greensward. 

After  passing  Sawyer's  River,  the  road  turned  abruptly  to  the  north, 
skirtina:  the  base  of  the  Nancv  range.  We  were  at  the  door  of  the 
second  chamber  in  this  remarkable  gallery  of  nature. 

Before  crossing  the  threshold  it  is  expedient  to  allude  to  the  incident 
which  has  given  a  name  not  only  to  the  mountain,  but  to  the  torrent  we 
see  tearing  its  impetuous  way  down  from  the  upper  forests.  The  story 
of  Nancy's  Brook  is  as  follows : 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  last  century,  a  maiden,  whose  Christian  name 
of  Nancy  is  all  that  comes  down  to  us,  was  living  in  the  little  hamlet  of 
Jefferson.  She  loved,  and  was  betrothed  to  a  young  man  of  the  farm. 
The  wedding-day  was  fixed,  and  the  young  couple  were  on  the  e\'e  of 
setting  out  for  Portsmouth,  where  their  happiness  was  to  be  consum- 
mated at  the  altar.  In  the  trustfulness  of  love,  the  young  girl  confided 
the  small  sum  which  constituted  all  her  marriage -portion  to  her  lover. 
This  man  repaid  her  simple  faith  with  the  basest  treachery.  Seizing 
his  opportunity,  he  left  the  hamlet  without  a  word  of  explanation  or  of 
adieu.  The  deserted  maiden  was  one  of  those  natures  which  cannot 
quietly  sit  down  under  calamity.  Urged  on  by  the  intensity  of  her  feel- 
ings, she  resolved  to  pursue  her  recreant  lover.  He  could  not  resist  her 
prayers,  her   entreaties,  her  tears !      She   was   young,  vigorous,  intrepid. 


68 


THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAIXS. 


With  her  to  decide  and  to  act  were  the  same  thing.     In  vain  the  family 
attempted  to  dissuade  her  from  her  purpose.     At  nightfall  she  set  out. 

A  hundred  years  aejo  the  route  taken  bv  this  brave  orirl  was  not,  as 
to-day,  a  thoroughfare  which  one  may  follow  with  his  eyes  shut.  It  was 
only  an  obscure  path,  little  travelled  by  day,  deserted  by  night.  For 
thirty  miles,  from  Colonel  Whipple's,  in  Jefferson,  to  Hartlett,  there  was 
not  a  human  habitation.     The  forests  were  filled  with  wild  beasts.     The 


NANCY    IN    THE   SNOW. 


rigor  of  the  season — it  was  December — added  its  own  perils.  But  noth- 
ing could  daunt  the  heroic  spirit  of  Nancy ;  she  had  found  man  more 
cruel  than  all  besides. 

The  girl's  hope  was  to  overtake  her  lo\cr  before  dawn  at  the  place 
where  she  expected  he  would  have  camped  for  the  niglit.  She  found 
the  camp  deserted,  and  the  embers  extinguished.  Spurred  on  by  hope 
or  despair,  she  pushed  on  down  the  tremendous  defile  of  the  Notch,  ford- 
ing the  turbulent  and  frozen  Saco,  and  toiling  through  deep  snows  and 
over  rocks  and  fallen  trees,  until,  feeling  her  strength  fail,  she  sunk  ex- 
hausted on  the  margin  of  the  brook  which  seems  perpetually  bemoan- 
ing her  sad  fate.  Here,  cold  and  rigid  as  marble,  under  a  canopy  of 
evergreen  which  the  snow  tenderly  drooped  above,  they  found  her.     She 


VALLEY    OF    THE     SACO.  69 

was  wrapped  in  her  cloak,  and  in  tlic  same  attitude  of  repose  as  when 
she  fell  asleep  on  her  nuptial  couch  of  snow-crusted  moss. 

The  story  goes  that  the  faithless  lover  became  a  hopeless  maniac  on 
learning  the  fate  of  his  victim,  dying  in  horrible  paroxysms  not  long 
after.  Tradition  adds  that  for  many  years,  on  every  anniversary  of  her 
death,  the  mountains  resounded  with  ravings,  shrieks,  and  agonized  cries, 
which  the  superstitious  attributed  to  the  unhappy  ghost  of  the  maniac 
lover.^ 

It  was  not  quite  noon  when  we  entered  the  beautiful  and  romantic 
glen  under  the  shadow  of  Mount  Crawford.  Upon  our  left,  a  little  in 
advance,  a  solidly-built  English  country-house,  with  gables,  stood  on  a 
terrace  well  above  the  valley.  At  our  right,  and  below,  was  the  old 
Mount  Crawford  tavern,  one  of  the  most  ancient  of  mountain  hostelries. 
Upon  the  opposite  side  of  the  vale  rose  the  enormous  mass  of  Mount 
Crawford ;  and  near  where  we  stood,  a  humble  mound,  overgrown  with 
bushes,  enclosed  the  mortal  remains  of  the  hardy  pioneer  whose  monu- 
ment is  the  mountain. 

We  had  an  excusable  curiosity  to  see  a  man  who,  in  the  prime  of 
life,  had  forsaken  the  city,  its  pleasures,  its  opportunities,  and  had  come 
to  pass  the  rest  of  his  life  among  these  mountains ;  one,  too,  whose  enor- 
mous possessions  procured  for  him  the  title  of  Lord  of  the  Valley.  We 
heard  with  astonishment  that  our  days  journey,  of  which  we  had  com- 
pleted the  half  only,  was  wholly  over  his  tract — I  ought  to  say  his  do- 
minions— that  is,  over  thirteen  miles  of  field,  forest,  and  mountain.  This 
being  equal  to  a  small  principality,  it  seemed  quite  natural  and  proper 
to  approach  the  proprietor  with  some  degree  of  ceremony. 

A  servant  took  our  cards  at  the  door,  and  returned  with  an  invita- 
tion to  enter.  The  apartment  into  which  we  were  conducted  was  the 
most  singular  I  have  ever  seen ;  certainly  it  has  no  counterpart  in  this 
world,  unless  the  famous  hut  of  Robinson  Crusoe  has  escaped  the  rav- 
ages of  time.  It  was  literally  cram.med  with  antique  furniture,  among 
which  was  a  high-backed  chair  used  in  dentistry;  squat  little  bottles,  con- 
taining chemicals ;  and  a  bench,  on  which  was  a  spirit-lamp ;  a  turning- 
lathe,  a  small  portable  furnace,  and  a  variety  of  instruments  or  tools  of 


'  Dr.  Jeremy  Belknap  relates  that,  on  his  journey  through  this  region  in  1784,  he  was  be- 
sought by  the  superstitious  villagers  to  lay  the  spirits  which  were  still  believed  to  haunt  the 
fastnesses  of  the  mountains. 


70 


THE     HEART    OE    T/fE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 


which  we  did  not  know  the  use.  A  few  prints  and  oil-paintings  adorned 
the  walls.     A  cheerful  fire  burnt  on  the  hearth. 

"  Were  we  in  the  sixteenth  century,"  said  George,  "  I  should  say  this 
was  the  laboratory  of  some  famous  alchejnist." 

Further  investigation  was  cut  short  by  the  entrance  of  our  host,  who 
was  a  venerable-lookinsr  man,  turned  of  eishtv.  with  a  silver  beard  falling 
upon  his  breast,  and  a  general  expression   of  benignity.     He  stooped  a 


AllEL  CRAWFORD. 


little,  but  seemed  hale  and  hearty,  notwithstanding  the  weight  of  his 
fourscore  years. 

Doctor  Bemis  received  us  graciously.  I'Or  an  hour  he  entertained 
us  with  the  story  of  his  life  among  the  mountains,  "  to  which,"  said  he. 
"  I  credit  the  last  forty-five  years — for  I  at  first  came  here  in  pursuit  of 
health."  .\fter  he  had  satisfied  our  curiosity  concerning  himself,  wliicli 
he  did  with  perfect  bonhomie,  I  asked  him  to  describe  Abel  Crawford, 
the  veteran  guide  of  the  White  Hills. 

"Abel,"  said  the  doctor,  "was  six  feet  four;    Krastus,  the  eldest  son. 


VALLEY    GF    THE     SACO.  71 

was  six  feet  six,  or  taller  than  Washington ;  and  Ethan  was  still  taller, 
being  nearly  seven  feet.  In  fact,  not  one  of  the  sons  was  less  than  six 
feet ;  so  you  may  imagine  what  sort  of  family  group  it  was  when  '  his 
boys,'  as  Abel  loved  to  call  them,  were  all  at  home.  Ah,  well!"  con- 
tinued the  doctor,  with  a  sigh,  "  that  kind  of  timber  does  not  flourish  in 
the  mountains  now.  Why,  the  very  sight  of  one  of  those  giants  inspired 
the  timid  with  confidence.  Ethan,  called  in  his  day  the  Giant  of  the 
Hills,  was  a  man  of  iron  frame  and  will.  Fear  and  he  were  strangers. 
He  would  take  up  an  exhausted  traveller  in  his  sinewy  arms  and  carry 
him  as  you  would  a  baby,  until  his  strength  or  courage  returned.  The 
first  bridle-path  up  the  mountain  was  opened  by  him  in — let  me  see — 
ah!  I  have  it,  it  was  in  182 1.  Ethan,  with  the  help  of  his  father,  also 
built  the  Notch  House  above.' 

"Abel  was  long-armed,  lean,  and  sinewy.  Doctor  Dvvight,  whose 
'  Travels  in  New  England '  you  have  doubtless  read,  stopped  with  Craw- 
ford, on  his  way  down  the  Notch,  in  1797.  His  nearest  neighbor  then, 
on  the  north,  was  Captain  Rosebrook,  who  lived  on  or  near  the  site  of 
the  present  Fabyan  House.  Crawford's  life  of  hardship  had  made  little 
impression  on  a  constitution  of  iron.  At  seventy-five  he  rode  the  first 
horse  that  reached  the  summit  of  Mount  Washington.  At  eighty  he 
often  walked  to  his  son's  (Thomas  J.  Crawford),  at  the  entrance  of  the 
Notch,  before  breakfast.  I  recollect  him  perfectly  at  this  time,  and  his 
appearance  was  peculiarly  impressive.  He  was  erect  and  vigorous  as 
one  of  those  pines  on  yonder  mountain.  His  long  white  hair  fell  down 
upon  his  shoulders,  and  his  fresh,  ruddy  face  was  aUvays  expressive  of 
good-humor. 

"The  destructive  freshet  of  1S26,"  continued  the  doctor,  "swept 
everything  before  it,  flooding  the  intervale,  and  threatening  the  old  house 
down  there  with  instant  demolition.  During  that  terrible  night,  when 
the  Willey  family  perished,  Mrs.  Crawford  was  alone  with  her  young 
children  in  the  house.  The  water  rose  with  such  rapidity  that  she  was 
driven  to  the  upper  story  for  safety.  While  here,  the  thud  of  floating 
trees,  driven  by  the  current  against  the  house,  awakened  new  terrors. 
At  every  concussion  the  house  trembled.     Wooden  walls  could  not  long 

■  This  house  stood  just  within  the  entrance  to  the  Notch,  from  the  north,  or  Fabyan  side. 
It  was  for  some  time  kept  by  Thomas  J.,  one  of  the  famous  Crawfords.  Travellers  who  are 
a  good  deal  puzzled  by  the  frequent  recurrence  of  the  name  "  Crawford's  "  will  recollect  that 
the  present  hotel  is  now  the  only  one  in  this  valley  bearing  the  name. 


72  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOiXTAINS. 

stand  that  terrible  pounding.  The  heroic  woman,  alive  to  the  danger, 
seized  a  stout  pole,  and,  going  to  the  nearest  window,  kept  the  side  of 
the  house  exposed  to  the  flood  free  from  the  mass  of  wreck -stuff  col- 
lected against  it.  She  held  her  post  thus  throughout  the  night,  until 
the  danger  had  passed.  When  the  flood  subsided,  Crawford  found  sev- 
eral fine  trout  alive  in  his  cellar." 

'•  When  do  the  great  freshets  usually  occur  ?"  I  asked. 

"In  the  autumn,"  replied  our  host.  "It  is  not  the  melting  snows, 
but  the  sudden  rainfalls  that  we  fear." 

"  Yes,"  resumed  he.  reflectively,  "  the  Crawfords  were  a  family  of 
athletes.  With  them  the  race  of  guides  became  extinct.  Soon  after 
settling  here,  Abel  went  with  his  wife  to  liartlett  on  some  occasion,  leav- 
ing their  two  bovs  in  the  care  of  a  hired  man.  When  they  had  gone, 
this  man  took  what  he  could  find  of  value  and  decamped.  When  Abel 
returned,  which  he  did  on  the  following  day,  he  immediately  set  out  in 
pursuit  of  the  thief,  overtook  him  thirty  miles  from  here,  in  the  Fran- 
conia  forests,  flogged  him  within  an  inch  of  his  life,  and  let  him  go." 

"  Sixty  miles  on  foot,  and  alone,  to  recover  a  few  stolen  goods,  and 
punish  a  thief!"  cried  the  astonished  colonel;  "that  beats  Daniel  Boone." 

"Yes;  and  what  is  more,  the  boys  were  brought  up  to  face  hunger, 
cold,  fatigue,  with  Indian  stoicism,  and  even  to  encounter  bears,  lynxes, 
and  wolves  witli  no  other  weapons  than  those  provided  b\-  nature. 
There,  now,  was  Ethan,  for  example,"  said  the  doctor,  smiling  at  the  rec- 
ollection. "  One  day  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  have  a  tame  bear  for 
the  diversion  of  his  guests.  Well,  he  caught  a  young  one,  half  grown, 
and  remarkably  vicious,  in  a  trap.  But  how  to  get  him  home !  At 
length  Ethan  tied  his  fore  and  hind  paws  together  so  he  couldn't 
scratch,  and  put  a  muzzle  of  withes  over  his  nose  so  he  couldn't  bite. 
Then,  shouldering  his  prize  as  he  would  a  bag  of  meal,  the  guide  started 
for  home,  in  great  glee  at  the  success  of  his  clever  expedient.  He  had 
not  gone  far,  however,  before  Bruin  managed  to  get  one  paw  wholly  and 
his  muzzle  partly  free,  and  began  to  scratch  and  struggle  and  snap  at 
his  captor  savagely.  Ethan  wanted  to  get  the  bear  home  terribly ;  but, 
after  having  his  clothing  nearly  torn  off  liis  back,  he  grew  angry,  and 
threw  the  beast  upon  the  ground  witii  such  force  as  to  kill  him  in- 
stantly." 

"  Report,"  said  I,  "credits  you  with  naming  most  of  the  mountains 
which  overlook  the  intervale." 


VALLEY    OF    THE     SACO.  73 

"Yes,"  replied  the  doctor,  "  Resolution,  over  there" — indicating  the 
mountain  allied  to  Crawford,  and  to  the  ridge  which  forms  one  of  the 
buttresses  of  Mount  Washington — "  I  named  in  recognition  of  the  perse- 
verance of  Mr.  Davis,  who  became  discouraged  while  making  a  path  to 
Mount  Washington  in  1S45." 

"  Is  the  route  practicable  ?"  I  asked, 

"  Practicable,  yes  ;  but  nearly  obliterated,  and  seldom  ascended.  Have 
you  seen  Frankenstein  ?"  demanded  the  doctor,  in  his  turn. 

We  replied  in  the  negative. 

"  It  will  repay  a  visit.  I  named  it  for  a  young  German  artist  who 
passed  some  time  with  me,  and  who  was  fascinated  by  its  rugged  pictu- 
resqueness.  Here  is  some  of  his  work,"  pointing  to  the  paintings  which, 
apparently,  formed  the  foundation  of  the  collection  on  the  walls. 

Our  host  accompanied  us  to  the  door  with  a  second  injunction  not 
to  forget  Frankenstein. 

"  You  have  something  there  good  for  the  eyes,"  I  observed,  indicat- 
ing the  green  carpet  of  the  vale  beneath  us. 

"  True ;  but  you  should  have  seen  it  when  the  deer  boldly  came 
down  the  mountain  and  browsed  quietly  among  the  cattle.  That  was  a 
pretty  sight,  and  one  of  frequent  occurrence  when  I  first  knew  the  place. 
At  that  time,"  he  continued,  "  the  stage  passed  up  every  other  day. 
Sometimes  there  were  one  or  two,  but  seldom  three  passengers." 

Proceeding  on  our  way,  we  now  had  a  fine  view  of  the  Giant's  Stairs, 
which  we  had  already  seen  from  Mount  Carrigain,  but  less  boldly  out- 
lined than  they  appear  from  the  valley,  where  they  really  look  like  two 
enormous  steps  cut  on  the  very  summit  of  the  opposite  ridge.  No  name 
could  be  more  appropriate,  though  each  of  the  degrees  of  this  colossal 
staircase  demands  a  giant  not  of  our  days ;  for  they  are  respectively 
three  hundred  and  fifty,  and  four  hundred  and  fifty  feet  in  height.  It 
was  over  those  steps  that  the  Davis  path  ascended. 

A  mile  or  a  mile  and  a  half  above  the  Crawford  Glen,  we  emerged 
from  behind  a  projecting  spur  of  the  mountain  which  hid  the  upper  val- 
ley, when,  by  a  common  impulse,  we  stopped,  fairly  stupefied  with  admi- 
ration and  surprise. 

Thrust  out  before  us,  athwart  the  pass,  a  black  and  castellated  pile  of 
precipices  shot  upward  to  a  dizzy  height,  and  broke  off  abruptly  against 
the  sky.  Its  bulging  sides  and  regular  outlines  resembled  the  clustered 
towers  and  frowning  battlements  of  some  antique  fortress  built  to  com- 


74  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAIXS. 

mand  the  pass.  Gashed,  splintered,  defaced,  it  seemed  to  have  withstood 
for  ages  the  artillery  of  heaven  and  the  assaults  of  time.  With  what  soli- 
tary grandeur  it  lifted  its  mailed  front  above  the  forest,  and  seemed  even 
to  regard  the  mountains  with  disdain !  Silent,  gloomy,  impregnable,  it 
wanted  nothing  to  recall  those  dark  abodes  of  the  Thousand  and  One 
Nights,  in  which  malignant  genii  are  imprisoned  for  thousands  of  years. 

This  was  Frankenstein.  We  at  once  accord  it  a  place  as  the  most 
suggestive  of  cliffs.  From  the  other  side  of  the  valley  the  resemblance 
to  a  mediaeval  castle  is  still  more  striking.  It  has  a  black  gorge  for  a 
moat,  so  deejj  that  the  head  swims  when  crossing  it;  and  to-day,  as  we 
crept  over  the  cat's-cradle  of  a  bridge  thrown  across  for  the  passage  of 
the  railway,  and  listened  to  the  growling  of  the  torrent  far  down  beneath. 
the  whole  frail  structure  seemed  trembling  under  us. 

But  what  a  contrast !  what  a  singular  freak  of  nature !  At  the  foot 
of  this  grisly  ]5recipice,  clothing  it  with  almost  superhuman  beauty,  was 
a  plantation  of  maples  and  birches,  all  resplendent  in  crimson  and  gold. 
Never  have  I  seen  such  masses  of  color  laid  on  such  a  background. 
Below  all  was  light  and  splendor;  above,  all  darkness  and  gloom.  Here 
the  eye  fairly  revelled  in  beauty,  there  it  recoiled  in  terror.  The  cliff 
was  like  a  naked  and  swarthy  Fthiopian  up  to  his  knees  in  roses. 

We  walked  slowly,  with  our  eyes  fi.xed  on  these  cliffs,  until  another 
turn  of  the  road — we  were  now  on  the  railway  embankment — opened  a 
vista  deserving  to  be  remembered  as  one  of  the  marvels  of  this  glorious 
picture-gallery. 

The  perfection  and  magnificence  of  this  truly  regal  picture,  the  gi- 
gantic scale  on  which  it  is  presented,  without  the  least  blemish  to  mar  its 
harmony  or  disturb  the  impression  of  one  grand,  unique  whole,  is  a  reve- 
lation to  the  least  susceptible  nature  in  tlie  world. 

Frankenstein  was  now  a  little  withdrawn,  on  our  left.  Upon  the 
right,  fluttering  its  golden  foliage  as  if  to  attract  our  attention,  a  planta- 
tion of  tall,  satin-stemmed  birches  stretched  for  some  distance  along  the 
railway.  Between  the  long  buttress  of  the  cliff  and  this  forest  lay  open 
the  valley  of  Mount  Washington  River,  which  is  driven  deep  into  the 
heart  of  the  great  range.  There,  through  this  valley,  cutting  the  sap- 
phire sky  with  their  silver  silhouette,  were  the  giant  mountains,  sur- 
mounted by  the  splendid  dome  of  Washington  him.self. 

Passing  beyond,  we  had  a  fine  retrospect  of  Crawford,  with  his  curved 
horn ;  and  upon  the  dizzy  iron  bridge  thrown  across  the  gorge  beneath 


VALLEY    OF    THE     SACO. 


75 


STORM   ON   MOUNT   WILLEY. 


Frankenstein,  striking  views  are  ob- 
tained  of  the   mountains  below.      They 
seemed  loftier  and  grander,  and  more  im- 
posing  than   ever. 

Turning    our   faces    toward    the    north,  we  "^ 

now  beheld  the   immense  bulk  and  superb  crest  of  Willey. 
On   the  other  side   of  the   valley  was   the   long  battlement  of 
Mount  Webster.     We  were  at  the  entrance  of  the  great  Notch. 


76  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MO  UNTAINS. 


VIII. 

THROUGH    THE    NOTCH. 

Around  his  waist  are  forests  braced, 
The  avalanche  in  his  liand. — BvRON. 

THK  valley,  which  had  continually  contracted  since  leaving  Bartlctt, 
now  appeared  fast  shut  between  these  two  mountains ;  but  on  turn- 
ing the  tremendous  support  which  Mount  W'illey  flings  down,  we  were 
in  presence  of  the  amazing  defile  cloven  through  the  midst,  and  giving 
entrance  to  the  heart  of  the  White  Hills. 

These  gigantic  mountains  divided  to  the  right  and  left,  like  the  Red 
Sea  before  the  Israelites.  Through  the  immense  trough,  over  which 
their  crests  hung  suspended  in  mid-air,  the  highway  creeps  and  the  river 
steals  away.  The  road  is  only  seen  at  intervals  through  the  forest;  a 
low  murmur,  like  the  hum  of  bees,  announces  the  river. 

I  have  no  conception  of  the  man  who  can  approach  this  stupendous 
chasm  without  a  sensation  of  fear.  The  idea  of  imminent  annihilation  is 
everywhere  overwhelming.  The  mind  refuses  to  reason,  or  rather  to 
fi.\  itself,  except  on  a  single  point.  What  if  the  same  power  that  com- 
manded these  awful  mountains  to  remove  should  hurl  them  back  to 
ever-during  fixedness  }  Should,  do  I  say  .'  The  gulf  seemed  contract- 
ing under  our  very  eyes — the  great  mountains  to]3pling  to  their  fall. 
With  an  eagerness  excited  by  high  e\])ectation,  we  had  pressed  forward  : 
but  now  we  hesitated. 

This  emotion,  which  many  of  my  readers  have  doubtless  partaken, 
was  our  tribute  to  the  dumb  but  eloquent  expression  of  power  too  vast 
for  our  feeble  intellects  to  measure.  It  was  the  triumph  of  matter  over 
mind ;  of  the  finite  over  the  infinite. 

Below,  it  was  all  admiration  and  surprise;  here,  all  amazement  and 
fear.     The   more  the  mountains  exalted  themselves,  the  more  we  were 


THROUGH    THE     NOTCH.  77 

abased.  Trusting,  nevertheless,  in  our  insignificance,  we  moved  on,  look- 
ing with  all  our  eyes,  absorbed,  silent,  and  almost  worshipping. 

The  wide  split  of  the  Notch,  wliich  wc  had  now  entered,  had  on  one 
side  Mount  Willey,  drawn  up  to  his  full  height ;  and  on  the  other  Mount 
Webster,  striped  with  dull  red  on  dingy  yellow,  like  an  old  tiger's  skin. 
Willey  is  the  highest ;  Webster  the  most  remarkable.  Willey  has  a  con- 
ical spire;  Webster  a  long,  irregular  battlement.  Willey  is  a  mountain; 
Webster  a  huge  block  of  granite. 

For  two  miles  the  gorge  winds  between  these  mountains  to  where  it 
is  apparently  sealed  up  by  a  sheer  mass  of  purple  precipices  lodged  full 
in  its  throat.  This  is  Mount  Willard.  The  vast  chasm  glowed  with  the 
gorgeous  colors  of  the  foliage,  even  when  a  passing  cloud  obscured  the 
sun.  These  general  observations  made,  we  cast  our  eyes  down  into  the 
vale  reposing  at  our  feet.  We  had  chosen  for  our  point  of  view  that  to 
which  Abel  Crawford  conducted  Sir  Charles  Lyell  in  1S45.  The  scien- 
tist has  made  the  avalanche  bear  witness  to  the  glacier,  precisely  as  one 
criminal  is  made  to  convict  another  under  our  laws. 

F"ive  hundred  feet  below  us  was  a  little  clearing,  containing  a  hamlet 
of  two  or  three  houses.  From  this  hamlet  to  the  storm -crushed  crags 
glistening  on  the  summit  of  Mount  Willey  the  track  of  an  old  avalanche 
was  still  distinguishable,  though  the  birches  and  alders  rooted  among 
the  debris  threatened  to  obliterate  it  at  no  distant  day. 

We  descended  by  this  still  plain  path  to  the  houses  at  the  foot  of 
the  mountain.  One  and  the  other  are  associated  with  the  most  tragic 
event  connected  with  the  history  of  the  great  Notch. 

We  found  two  houses,  a  larger  and  smaller,  fronting  the  road,  neither 
of  which  merits  a  description ;  although  evidence  that  it  was  visited  by 
multitudes  of  curious  pilgrims  abounded  on  the  walls  of  the  unoccupied 
building. 

Since  quite  early  in  the  century,  this  house  was  kept  as  an  inn ;  and 
for  a  long  time  it  was  the  only  stopping-place  between  Abel  Crawford's 
below  and  Captain  Rosebrook's  above — a  distance  of  thirteen  miles.  Its 
situation,  at  the  entrance  of  the  great  Notch,  was  advantageous  to  the 
public  and  to  the  landlord,  but  attended  with  a  danger  which  seems  not 
to  have  been  sufiFiciently  regarded,  if  indeed  it  caused  successive  in- 
mates particular  concern.     This  fatal  security  had  a  lamentable  sequel. 

In  1826  this  house  was  occupied  by  Samuel  Willey,  his  wife,  five 
children,  and  two  hired  men.     During  the  summer  a  drought  of  unusual 


78 


THE     HEART     OF    THE     WHITE     MOUXTAIXS. 


severity  dried  the  streams, 
and  parched  the  thin  soil  of  the  neigh- 
-     boring    mountains.      On    the    evening 
of  the   26th   of  June,  tlie   family   heard 
a  heavy,  rumbling  noise,  apparently  pro- 
ceeding    from     the     mountain      behind 
them.     In    terror    and    amazement    they 
ran   out   of   the   house.      They   saw    the 
MOUNT  wiLLARu  KROM  wiLLEY  BROOK,     mountain  in  motioH.     They  saw  an  im- 


THROUGH    THE    NOTCH.  79 

niense  mass  of  earth  and  rock  detach  itself  and  move  toward  the  valley, 
at  first  slowly,  tlien  with  gathered  and  irresistible  momentum.  Rocks, 
trees,  earth,  were  swooping  down  upon  them  from  the  heights  in  three 
destroying  streams.  The  spectators  stood  rooted  to  the  spot.  Before 
they  could  recover  their  presence  of  mind  the  avalanche  was  upon 
them.  One  torrent  crossed  the  road  only  ten  rods  from  the  house ;  an- 
other a  little  distance  beyond ;  while  the  third  and  largest  portion  took 
a  different  direction.  With  great  labor  a  way  was  made  over  the  mass 
of  rubbish  for  the  road.  The  avalanche  had  shivered  the  largest  trees, 
and  borne  rocks  weighing  many  tons  almost  to  the  door  of  the  lonely 
habitation. 

This  awful  warning  passed  unheeded.  On  the  28th  of  August,  at 
dusk,  a  storm  burst  upon  the  mountains,  and  raged  with  indescribable 
fury  throughout  the  night.  The  rain  fell  in  sheets.  Innumerable  tor- 
rents suddenly  broke  forth  on  all  sides,  deluging  the  narrow  valley,  and 
bearing  with  them  forests  that  had  covered  the  mountains  for  ages. 
The  swollen  and  turbid  Saco  rose  over  its  banks,  flooding  the  Intervales, 
and  spreading  destruction  in  its  course. 

Two  days  afterward  a  traveller  succeeded  in  forcing  his  way  through 
the  Notch.  He  found  the  Willey  House  standing  uninjured  in  the 
midst  of  woful  desolation.  A  second  avalanche,  descended  from  Mount 
Willey  during  the  storm,  had  buried  the  little  vale  beneath  its  ruins. 
The  traveller,  affrighted  by  the  scene  around  him,  pushed  open  the  door. 
As  he  did  so,  a  half-famished  dog,  sole  inmate  of  the  house,  disputed  his 
entrance  with  a  mournful  howl.  He  entered.  The  interior  was  silent 
and  deserted.  A  candle  burnt  to  the  socket,  the  clothing  of  the  inmates 
lying  by  their  bedsides,  testified  to  the  haste  with  which  this  devoted 
family  had  fled.  The  death-like  hush  pervading  the  lonely  cabin — these 
evidences  of  the  horrible  and  untimely  fate  of  the  family — the  appalling 
scene  of  wreck  all  around,  froze  the  solitary  intruder's  blood.  In  terror 
he,  too,  fled  from  the  doomed  dwelling. 

On  arriving  at  Bartlett,  the  traveller  reported  what  he  had  seen. 
Assistance  was  despatched  to  the  scene  of  disaster.  The  rescuers  came 
too  late  to  render  aid  to  the  living,  but  they  found,  and  buried  on  the 
spot,  the  bodies  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Willey,  and  the  two  hired  men.  The 
remaining  children  were  never  found. 

It  was  easily  conjectured  that  the  terrified  family,  alive  at  last  to  the 
appalling  danger  that  menaced  them,  and  feeling  the  solid  earth  tremble 


8o  THE     HEART    OF    THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

in  the  throes  of  the  mountain,  sought  safety  in  flight.  They  only  rushed 
to  their  doom.  The  discovery  of  the  bodies  showed  but  too  plainly  the 
manner  of  their  death.  They  had  been  instantly  swallowed  up  by  the 
avalanche,  which,  in  the  inexplicable  order  of  things  visible  in  great 
calamities,  divided  behind  the  house,  leaving  the  frail  structure  un- 
harmed, while  its  inmates  were  hurried  into  eternity.' 

For  some  time  after  the  disaster  a  curse  seemed  to  rest  upon  the  old 
Notch  House.  No  one  would  occupy  it.  Travellers  shunned  it.  It 
remained  untenanted,  though  open  to  all  who  might  be  driven  to  seek 
its  inhospitable  shelter,  until  the  deep  impression  of  horror  which  the 
fate  of  the  Willey  family  inspired  had,  in  a  measure,  effaced  itself. 

The  effects  of  the  cataclysm  were  everywhere.  For  twenty -one 
miles,  almost  its  entire  length,  the  turnpike  was  demolished.  Twenty- 
one  of  the  twenty -three  bridges  were  swept  away.  In  some  places  the 
meadows  were  buried  to  the  depth  of  several  feet  beneath  sand,  earth, 
and  rocks ;  in  others,  heaps  of  great  trees,  which  the  torrent  had  torn  up 
by  the  roots,  barricaded  the  route.  The  mountains  presented  a  ghastly 
spectacle.  One  single  night  sufificed  to  obliterate  the  work  of  centuries, 
to  strip  their  summits  bare  of  verdure,  and  to  leave  them  with  shreds  of 
forest  and  patches  of  shrubbery  hanging  to  their  stark  and  naked  sides. 
Thus  their  whole  aspect  was  altered  to  an  extent  hardly  to  be  realized 
to-day,  though  remarked  with  mingled  wonder  and  dread  long  after  the 
period  of  the  convulsion. 

From  the  house  our  eyes  naturally  wandered  to  the  mountain,  where 
quarrymen  were  pecking  at  its  side  like  yellow-hammers  at  a  dead  syca- 
more. /\11  at  once  a  tremendous  explosion  was  heard,  and  a  stream  of 
loosened  earth  and  bowlders  came  rattling  down  tlie  mountain.  So  un- 
expected was  the  sound,  so  startling  its  multiplied  echo,  it  seemed  as  if 
the  mountain  had  uttered  a  i-oar  of  rage  and  pain,  whicli  was  taken  up 
and  repeated  by  the  other  mountains  until  tlie  uproar  became  deafening. 
When  the  reverberation  died  away  in  the  distance,  we  again  heard  the 
metallic  click  of  the  miners'  hammers  chipping  away  at  the  gaunt  ribs  of 
Mount  Willey. 

How  does  it  happen  that  this  catastrophe  is  still  able  to  awaken  the 
liveliest  interest  for  the  fate  of  the  Willey  family?     Why  is  it  that  the 


'  A  portion  of  the  slide  touching  the  house,  even  moved  it  a  little  from  its  foundations 
before  being  stopped  by  the  resistance  it  opposed  to  the  progress  of  the  debris. 


THROUGH    THE     NOTCH.  8 1 

oft- repeated  tale  seems  ever  new  in  the  ears  of  sympathetic  listeners? 
Our  age  is  crowded  with  horrors,  to  which  this  seems  trifling  indeed. 
May  we  not  attribute  it  to  the  influence  which  the  actual  scene  exerts 
on  the  imagination  ?  One  must  stand  on  the  spot  to  comprehend ;  must 
feel  the  mysterious  terror  to  which  all  who  come  within  the  influence  of 
the  gorge  submit.  Here  the  annihilation  of  a  family  is  but  the  legiti- 
mate e.\pression  of  that  feeling.  It  seems  altogether  natural  to  the  place. 
The  ravine  might  well  be  the  sepulchre  of  a  million  human  beings,  in- 
stead of  the  grave  of  a  single  obscure  family. 

We  reached  the  public-house,  at  the  side  of  the  Willey  house,  with 
appetites  whetted  by  our  long  walk.  The  mercury  had  only  risen  to 
thirty -eight  degrees  by  the  thermometer  nailed  to  the  door-post.  We 
went  in. 

In  general,  the  mountain  publicans  are  not  only  very  obliging,  but 
equal  to  even  the  most  unexpected  demands.  The  colonel,  who  never 
brags,  had  boasted  for  the  last  half-hour  what  he  was  going  to  do  at  this 
repast.     In  point  of  fact,  we  were  famishing. 

A  man  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  his  hands  thrust  un- 
derneath his  coat-tails,  and  a  pipe  in  his  mouth.  Either  the  pipe  illu- 
minated his  nose,  or  his  nose  the  pipe.  He  also  had  a  nervous  contrac- 
tion of  the  muscles  of  his  face,  causing  an  involuntary  twitching  of  the 
eyebrows,  and  at  the  same  time  of  his  ears,  up  and  down.  This  habit, 
taken  in  connection  with  the  perfect  immobility  of  the  figure,  made  on 
us  the  impression  of  a  statue  winking.  We  therefore  hesitated  to  ad- 
dress it — I  mean  him  —  until  a  moment's  puzzled  scrutiny  satisfied  us 
that  it — I  mean  the  strange  object — was  alive.  He  merely  turned  his 
head  when  we  entered  the  room,  wagged  his  ears  playfully,  winked  furi- 
ously, and  then  resumed  his  first  attitude.  In  all  probability  he  was 
some  stranger  like  ourselves. 

I  accosted  him.  "  Sir,"  said  I,  "  can  you  tell  us  if  it  is  possible  to 
procure  a  dinner  here  ?" 

The  man  took  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  shook  out  the  ashes  very 
deliberately,  and,  without  looking  at  me,  tranquilly  observed, 

"  You  would  like  dinner,  then .''" 

"  Would  we  like  dinner }  We  breakfasted  at  Bartlett,  and  have 
passed  six  hours  fasting." 

"  And  eleven  miles.  You  see,  a  long  way  between  meals,"  interjected 
George,  with  decision. 

7 


82  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

"  It's  after  the  regular  dinner,"  drawled  the  apathetic  smoker,  using 
his  thumb  for  a  stopper,  and  stooping  for  a  brand  with  which  to  relight 
his  pipe. 

"  In  that  case  we  are  willing  to  pay  for  any  additional  trouble,"  I 
hastened  to  say. 

The  man  seemed  reflecting.  We  zvere  hungry ;  that  was  incontesta- 
ble;  but  we  were  also  shivering,  and  he  maintained  his  position  astride 
the  hearth-stone,  like  the  fabled  Colossus  of  old. 

"  A  cold  day,"  said  the  colonel,  threshing  himself. 

"  I  did  not  notice  it,"  returned  the  stranger,  indifferently. 

"Only  thirty-eight  at  the  door,"  said  George,  stamping  his  feet  with 
unnecessary  vehemence. 

"  Indeed!"  observed  our  man,  with  more  interest. 

"  Yes,"  George  asserted ;  "  and  if  the  fireplace  were  only  larger,  or  the 
screen  smaller." 

The  man  hastily  stepped  aside,  knocking  over,  as  he  did  so,  a  blaz- 
ing brand,  whicii  he  kicked  viciously  back  into  the  fire. 

Having  carried  the  outworks,  we  approached  the  citadel.  "  Perhaps, 
sir,"  I  \'entured,  "  vou  can  inform  us  where  the  landlord  may  be  found  ?" 

"You  wanted  dinner,  I  believe.''"  The  tone  in  which  this  question 
was  put  gave  me  goose-flesh.  I  could  not  speak.  George  dropped  into 
a  chair.  The  colonel  propped  himself  against  the  chimney-piece.  I 
shrugged  my  shoulders,  and  nodded  expressively  to  my  companions,  who 
returned  two  glances  of  eloquent  dismay.  Evidently  nothing  was  to  be 
got  out  of  this  fellow. 

"  Dinner  for  one  ?"  continued  the  eternal  smoker. 

"  For  three !"  I  exclaimed,  out  of  all  patience. 

"  For  four;   I  shall  eat  double,"  added  the  colonel. 

"Six!"  shouted  George,  seizing  the  dinner-bell  on  the  mantel-piece. 

"  Stop,"  said  the  man,  betraying  a  little  excitement;  "don't  ring  that 
bell." 

"Why  not.^"  demanded  George;  "we  want  to  see  the  landlord;  and, 
by  Jove,"  brandishing  the  bell  aloft,  "  see  him  we  will!" 

"  He  stands  before  you,  gentlemen ;  and  if  you  will  have  a  little  pa- 
tience 1  will  see  what  can  be  done."  So  saying,  he  put  his  pipe  on  the 
chimney-piece,  wiped  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  and  went  out, 
muttering,  as  he  did  so,  "  The  world  was  not  made  in  a  day." 

In   three-quarters  of  an  hour  we  sat  down   to  a  funereal   repast,  the 


THROUGH    THE     NOTCH.  83 

bare  recollection  of  which  makes  me  ill,  but  which  was  enlivened  by  the 
following  conversation  : 

"  How  many  inhabitants  are  in  your  tract  ?"  I  asked  of  the  man  who 
waited  on  us. 

"  Do  you  mean  inhabitants  ?" 

"  Certainly,  I  mean  inhabitants." 

"  Well,  that's  not  an  easy  one." 

"  How  so  ?" 

"  Because  the  same  question  not  only  puzzled  the  .State  Legislature, 
but  made  the  attorney-general  sick." 

We  became  attentive. 

"  Explain  that,  if  you  please,"  said  I. 

"  Why,  just  look  at  it :  with  only  eight  legal  voters  in  the  tract  "  (he 
called  it  track),  "  we  cast  five  hundred  ballots  at  the  State  election." 

"  Five  hundred  ballots!  then  your  voters  must  have  sprung  from  the 
srround  or  from  the  rocks." 

"  Pretty  nearly  so." 

"  Actual  men .''" 

"  Actual  men." 

"  You  are  jesting." 

My  man  looked  at  me  as  if  I  had  offered  him  an  affront.  The  sup- 
position was  plainly  inadmissible.  He  was  completely  innocent  of  the 
charge. 

"  You  hear  those  men  pounding  away  up  the  hill  T  he  demanded, 
jerking  his  thumb  in  the  direction  indicated. 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  those  are  the  five  hundred  voters.  On  election  morning  they 
came  to  the  polling-place  with  a  ballot  in  one  hand,  and  a  pick,  a  sledge, 
or  a  drill  in  the  other.  Our  supervisor  is  a  very  honest,  blunt  sort  of 
man :  he  refused  their  ballots  on  the  spot." 

"  Well  r 

"Well,  one  of  them  had  a  can  of  nitro- glycerine  and  a  coil  of  wire. 
He  deposited  his  can  in  a  corner,  hitched  on  the  wire,  and  was  going 
out  with  his  comrades,  when  the  supervisor,  feeling  nervous,  said, 

"  '  The  polls  are  open,  gentlemen.'  " 

"  Ingenious,"  remarked  George. 

The  man  looked  astounded. 

"  He  means  dangerous,"  said  I ;  "  but  go  on." 


84  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUXTAIXS. 

"  I  will.  When  the  votes  were  counted,  at  sundown,  it  was  found 
that  our  precinct  had  elected  two  representatives  to  the  General  Court. 
But  when  the  successful  candidates  presented  their  certificates  at  Con- 
cord, some  meddlesome  city  fellow  questioned  the  validity  of  the  election. 
The  upshot  of  it  was  that  the  two  nitro-glycerites  came  back  with  a  flea 
in  each  car." 

"And  the  five  hundred  were  disfranchised,"  said  George. 

"  Why,  as  to  that,  half  were  French  Canadians,  half  Irish,  and  the 
devil  knows  what  the  rest  were ;  I  don't." 

"Never  mind  the  rest.  You  see,"  said  George,  rising,  "  how,  with  the 
railway,  the  blessings  of  civilization  penetrate  into  the  dark  corners  of 
the  earth." 

The  colonel  began  his  sacramental,  "  That  beats — "  when  he  was  inter- 
rupted by  a  second  explosion,  which  shook  the  building.  We  paid  our 
reckoning,  George  saying,  as  he  threw  his  money  on  the  table,  "A  heavy 
charge." 

"  No  more  than  the  regular  price,"  said  the  landlord,  stiffly. 

"  I  referred,  my  dear  sir,  to  the  explosion,"  replied  George,  with  the 
sardonic  serin  habitual  to  him  on  certain  occasions. 

"  Oh !"  said  the  host,  resuming  his  pipe  and  his  fireplace. 

We  spent  the  remaining  hours  of  this  memorable  afternoon  saunter- 
ing through  the  Notch,  which  is  dripping  with  cascades,  and  noisy  with 
mountain  torrents.  The  Saco,  here  nothing  but  a  brook,  crawls  lan- 
guidly along  its  bed  of  broken  rock.  From  dizzy  summit  to  where  they 
meet  the  river,  the  old  wasted  mountains  sit  warming  their  scarred  sides 
in  the  sun.  Looking  up  at  the  passage  of  the  railway  around  Mount 
Willey,  it  impressed  us  as  a  single  fractured  stone  might  have  done  on 
the  Great  Pyramid,  or  a  pin's  scratch  on  the  face  of  a  giant.  The  loco- 
motive, which  groped  its  way  along  its  broken  shelf,  stopped,  and 
stealthily  moving  again,  seemed  a  mouse  that  the  laboring  mountain  had 
brought  forth.  But  when  its  infernal  clamor  broke  the  silence,  what 
demoniacal  yells  shook  the  forests!  I*"arewell  to  our  dream  of  inviolable 
nature.  The  demon  of  progress  had  forced  his  way  into  the  very  sanct- 
uary.    There  were  no  longer  any  White  Mountains. 

We  passed  by  the  beautiful  brook  Kedron,  flung  down  from  the 
utmost  heights  of  Willev,  between  banks  mottled  with  colors.  Then, 
high  up  on  our  right,  two  airy  water-falls  seemed  to  hang  suspended 
from    the    summit   of   Webster.      These,  called    respectively   the    Silver 


THROUGH    THE    NOTCH. 


85 


THE   CASCADES,  MOUNT   WEBSTER, 


Cascade,  and  the  Flume  withdrew  the 

attention  from  every  other  object,  until  -__  „  ,^, 

a  sharp  turn  to  the  right  brought  the  over-       -=    "^'^^X  "  * 
hanging  precipice  of  Mount  Willard  full  upon  us. 
This  enormous  mass  of  granite,  rising  seven  hun- 


'..  nl. 


dred  feet  above  the  road,  stands  in  the  very  jaws   of 
the  cToro-e,  which  it  commands  from  end  to  end. 

Here  the  railway  seems  fairly  stopped ;  but  with  a  graceful 


86  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MO  i  XT  A  INS. 

sweep  it  eludes  the  mountain,  and  glides  around  its  massive  shoulder, 
giving,  as  it  does  so,  a  hand  to  the  high-road,  which  comes  straggling  up 
the  sharp  ascent.  The  river,  now  shrunken  to  a  rivulet,  is  finally  lost 
to  view  beneath  heaped -up  blocks  of  granite,  which  the  infuriated  old 
mountain  has  hurled  down  upon  it.  It  is  heard  painfully  gurgling  under 
tile  ruins,  like  a  victim  crushed,  and  dying  by  inches. 

Now  and  Iktc  we  entered  a  close,  dark  defile  hewn  down  between 
cliffs,  ascending  on  the  right  in  regular  terraces,  on  the  left  in  ruptured 
masses.  These  terraces  were  fringed  at  the  top  with  tapering  evergreens, 
and  displayed  gaudy  tufts  of  maple  and  mountain-ash  on  their  cool  gray. 
Those  on  the  right  are  furthermore  decorated  with  natural  sculptures, 
indicated  by  sign-boards,  which  the  curious  investigate  profitably  or  un- 
profitably,  according  to  their  fertility  of  imagination. 

For  a  few  rods  this  narrow  cleft  continues;  then,  on  a  sudden,  the 
rocks  which  lift  themselves  on  either  side  shut  together.  An  enormous 
mass  has  tumbled  from  its  ancient  location  on  the  left  side,  and,  taking 
a  position  williin  twenty  feet  of  the  opposite  precipice,  forms  the  natural 
srate  of  the  Notch,  throutih  which  a  wav  was  made  for  the  common  road 
with  great  labor,  through  which  the  river  frays  a  passage,  but  where  no 
one  would  imagine  there  was  room  for  either.  The  railway  has  made  a 
breach  for  itself  through  the  solid  rock,  greatly  diminishing  the  native 
grandeur  of  the  place.  All  three  emerge  from  the  shadow  and  gloom  of 
the  pass  into  the  cheerful  sunshine  of  a  little  prairie,  at  the  extremity  of 
which  are  seen  tlie  white  walls  of  a  hotel. 

The  whole  route  we  had  traversed  is  full  of  contrasts,  full  of  sur- 
prises ;  but  this  sudden  transition  was  the  most  picturesque,  the  most 
startlin<r  of  all.     We  seemed  to  have  reached  the  end  of  the  world. 


CRAWFORD'S.  87 


IX. 

CRA  WFORD'S. 

The  seasons  alter :   hoary-headed  frosts 
Fall  in  the  fresh  lap  of  the  crimson  rose. 

Shakspeare. 

ALL  who  have  passed  much  time  at  the  mountains  have  seen  the 
elephant — near  the  gate  of  the  Notch. 

Though  it  is  only  from  Nature's  chisel,  the  elephant  is  an  honest  one, 
and  readily  admitted  into  the  category  of  things  curious  or  marvellous 
constantly  displayed  for  our  inspection.  Standing  on  the  piazza  of  the 
hotel,  the  enormous  forehead  and  trunk  seem  just  emerging  from  the 
shaggy  woods  near  the  entrance  to  the  pass.  And  the  gray  of  the 
granite  strengthens  the  illusion  still  more.  From  the  Elephants  Head, 
a  title  suggestive  of  the  near  vicinity  of  a  public-house,  there  is  a  fine 
view  down  the  Notch  for  those  who  cannot  ascend  Mount  Willard. 

The  Crawford  House,  being  built  at  the  highest  point  of  the  pass, 
nearly  two  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  is  not  merely  a  hotel — it  is  a 
water-shed.  The  roof  divides  the  rain  falling  upon  it  into  two  streams, 
flowing  on  one  side  into  the  Saco,  on  the  other  into  the  Ammonoosuc. 
Here  the  sun  rises  over  the  Willey  range,  and  sets  behind  Mount  Clin- 
ton. The  north  side  of  the  piazza  enables  you  to  look  over  the  forests 
into  the  valley  of  the  Ammonoosuc,  where  the  view  is  closed  by  the 
chain  dividing  this  basin  from  that  of  Israel's  River.  But  we  are  not 
yet  ready  to  conduct  the  reader  into  this  Promised  Land. 

My  window  overlooked  a  grassy  plain  of  perhaps  half  a  mile,  the 
view  being  closed  by  the  Gate  of  the  Notch,  now  disfigured  by  snow- 
sheds  built  for  the  protection  of  the  railway.  The  massive,  full-rounded 
bulk  of  Webster  rose  abo\'e,  the  forests  of  Willard  tumbled  down  into 
the  ragged  fissure.  Half-way  between  the  hotel  and  the  Gate,  over- 
borne  by  the  big  shadow  of  Mount  Clinton,  extends  the  pretty  lakelet 


88 


THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 


ELICI'IIANT  S    HEAD,  WINTER. 


which  is  the  fountain-head  of  tlic  Saco.  Beyond  the  lake,  and  at  the 
left,  is  wliere  tlie  old  Notch  House  stood.  This  lake  was  once  a  bea- 
ver-pond, and  tiiis  plain  a  boggy  meadow,  through  which  a  road  of  cor- 
duroy and  sods  conducted  the  early  traveller.  The  highway  and  rail- 
way run  amicably  side  by  side,  dividing  the  little  vale  in  two. 

This  pass,  which  was  certainly  known  to  the  Indians,  was,  in  1771, 
rediscovered  b^•  Timothy  Nash,  a  hunter,  who  was  ])ersuaded  by  Benja- 
min Sawyer,  another  hunter,  to  admit  him  to  an  ec|ual  share  in  the  dis- 
covery. In  1773  Nash  and  Sawyer  received  a  grant  of  21S4  acres,  skirt- 
ing the  mountains  on  the  west,  as  a  reward.  With  the  prodigality  char- 
acteristic of  their  class,  the  hunters  squandered  their  large  acquisition  in 


CRAWFORD'S.  89 

a  little  time  after  it  was  granted.  Both  the  Crawford  and  Fabyan  hotels 
stand  upon  their  tract. 

Of  many  excursions  which  this  secluded  retreat  offers,  that  to  the 
summit  of  Mount  Washington,  by  the  bridle-path  opened  in  1840  by 
Thomas  J.  Crawford,  and  that  to  the  top  of  Mount  Willard,  are  the  prin- 
cipal. The  route  to  the  first  begins  opposite  to  the  hotel,  at  the  left; 
the  latter  turns  from  the  glen  a  quarter  of  a  mile  below,  on  the  right. 
Supposing  Mount  Washington  a  cathedral  set  on  an  eminence,  you  are 
here  on  the  summit  of  the  eminence,  with  one  foot  on  the  immense  stair- 
case of  the  cathedral. 

Our  resolve  to  ascend  by  the  bridle-path  was  already  formed,  and  we 
regarded  the  climb  up  Mount  Willard  as  indispensable.  As  for  the  cas- 
cades, which  lulled  us  to  sleep,  who  shall  describe  the-m .?  We  could  not 
lift  our  eyes  to  the  heights  above  without  seeing  one  or  more  fluttering 
in  the  play  of  the  breeze,  and  making  rainbows  in  pure  diversion.  Presi- 
dent Dwight,  in  his  "  Travels,"  has  no  more  eloquent  passage  than  that 
describing  the  Flume  Cascade.  How  many  since  have  thrown  down  pen 
or  pencil  in  sheer  despair  of  reproducing,  by  words  or  pigments,  the 
aC'rial  lightness,  the  joyous  freedom ;  above  all,  the  exuberant,  unquench. 
able  vitality  that  characterize  mountain  water-falls !  Down  the  Notch  is 
a  masterpiece,  hidden  from  the  eye  of  the  passer-by,  called  Ripley  Falls, 
which  fairly  revels  in  its  charming  seclusion.  Only  a  short  walk  from 
the  hotel,  by  a  woodland  path,  there  is  another,  Beecher's  Cascade,  whose 
capricious  leaps  and  playful  somersaults,  all  the  while  volubly  chatter- 
ing to  itself,  like  a  child  alone  with  its  playthings,  fascinates  us,  as 
sky,  water,  and  fire  charm  the  eyes  of  an  infant.  It  is  always  tumbling 
down,  and  as  often  leaping  to  its  feet  to  resume  its  frolicsome  gambols, 
with  no  loss  of  sprightliness  or  sign  of  weariness  that  we  can  detect. 
Only  a  lover  may  sing  the  praises  of  these  mountain  cascades  falling 
from  the  skies  : 

"  The  .torrent  is  the  soul  of  the  valley.  Not  only  is  it  the  Providence 
or  the  scourge,  often  both  at  once,  but  it  gives  to  it  a  physiognomy ;  it 
gladdens  or  saddens  it ;  it  lends  it  a  voice ;  it  communicates  life  to  it. 
A  valley  without  its  torrent  is  only  a  hole." 

They  give  the  name  of  Idlewild  to  the  romantic  sylvan  retreat, 
reached  by  a  winding  path,  diverging  near  the  hotel,  on  the  left.  I 
visited  it  in  company  with  Mr.  Atwater,  whose  taste  and  enthusiasm  for 
the  work  have  converted  the  natural  disorder  of  the  mountain  side  into 


go  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

a  trys ting-place  fit  for  elves  and  fairies ;  but  where  one  encounters  ladies 
m  elegant  toilets,  enjoying  a  quiet  stroll  among  the  fern -draped  rocks. 
Some  fine  vistas  of  the  valley  mountains  have  been  opened  through  the 
woods — beautiful  little  bits  of  blue,  framed  in  illuminated  foliage.  One 
notes  approvingly  the  revival  of  an  olden  taste  in  the  cutting  and  shap- 
ing of  trees  into  rustic  chairs,  stairways,  and  arbors. 

After  a  day  like  ours,  the  great  fires  and  admirable  order  of  the  hotel 
were  grateful  indeed.  If  it  is  true  that  the  way  to  man's  heart  lies 
through  his  stomach,  the  cherry-]i])ped  waiter-girl,  who  whispered  her 
seductive  tale  in  my  too-willing  ear  at  supper,  made  a  veritable  conquest. 
My  compliments  to  her,  notwithstanding  the  penalty  paid  for  lingering 
too  long  over  the  griddle-cakes. 

The  autumn  nights  being  cool,  it  was  something  curious  to  see  the 
parlor  doors  every  now  and  then  thrown  wide  open,  to  admit  a  man  who 
came  trundling  in  on  a  wheelbarrow  a  monster  log  fit  for  the  celebra- 
tion of  Yule-tide.  The  city  guest,  accustomed  to  the  economy  of  wood 
at  home,  because  it  is  dear,  looks  on  this  prodigality  first  with  consterna- 
tion, and  finally  with  admiration.  When  the  big  log  is  deposited  on  the 
blazing  hearth  amid  fusees  of  sparks,  the  easy-chairs  again  close  around 
the  fireplace  a  charmed  circle;  and  while  the  buzz  of  conversation  goes 
on,  and  the  faces  arc  illuminated  by  the  ruddy  glow,  the  wood  snaps,  and 
hisses,  and  spits  as  if  it  had  life  and  sense  of  feeling.  The  men  talk  in 
drowsy  undertones ;  the  ladies,  watching  the  chimney-soot  catch  fire  and 
redden,  point  out  to  each  other  the  old  grandame's  pictures  of  "folks 
coming  home  from  meeting."  This  scene  is  the  counterpart  of  a  warm 
summer  evening  on  the  piazza  —  both  typical  of  unrestrained,  luxurious 
indolence.  How  many  pictures  have  appeared  in  that  old  fireplace ! 
and  what  experiences  its  embers  revived!  Water  shows  us  only  our 
own  faces  in  their  proper  mask  —  nothing  more,  nothing  less;  but  fire, 
the  element  of  the  supernatural,  is  able,  so  at  least  we  believe,  to  unfold 
the  future  as  easily  as  it  turns  our  eves  into  the  past.  If  only  we  could 
read  ! 

When  we  arose  in  the  morning,  what  was  our  astonishment  to  .see 
the  surrounding  mountains  white  with  snow.  Like  one  smitten  with 
sudden  terror,  they  had  grown  gray  in  a  night.  Striking,  indeed,  was 
the  transformation  from  yesterdays  pomp ;  beautiful  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  dark  green  below  and  the  dead  white  of  the  upper  zones.' 
Thickly  incrusted  with  hoar-frost,  the  stiffened  foliage  of  the  pines  and 


CRA  W FORD'S. 


91 


firs  gave  those  trees  the  unwonted  appearance  of  bursting  into  blos- 
som. Over  all  a  dull  and  brooding  sky  shed  its  cold,  wan  light  upon 
the  glen,  forbidding  all  thought  of  attacking  the  high  summits,  at  least 
for  this  day. 

Dismissing  this,  therefore,  as  impracticable,  we  nevertheless  deter- 
mined on  ascending  Mount  Willard  —  an  easy  thing  to  do,  considering 
you  have  only  to  follow  a  good  carriage-road  for  two  miles  and  a  half  to 
reach  the  precipices  overlooking  the  Saco  Valley. 

Startling,  indeed,  by  its  sublimity  was  the  spectacle  that  rewarded  our 
trouble     a     thou- 
sand-fold.      Still, 
the      sensations 
partook    more    of 
wonder    than    ad- 
miration—  much 
more.       The     un- 
practised   eye     is 
so     utterly     con- 
founded    by     the 
immensity  of  this 
awful     chasm     of     :;^ 
the    Notch,  yawn-     '' 
ing  in  all  its  extent 
and   all   its    grandeur         '^i-  ' 
far  down  beneath,  that,  power- 
less to  grasp  the  fulness  and 
the   vastness   thus   suddenly 
encountered,  it   stupidly    stares 
into  those  far-retreating  depths. 
The  scene  really  seems  too  tre 
mendous  for  flesh   and  blood 
to   comprehend.      For    an    in- 
stant, while    standing    on    the 
brink    of  the   sheer   precipice, 

which  here  suddenly  drops  seven  or  eight  hundred  feet,  my  head  swam 
and  my  k^iees  trembled. 

First  came   the  idea  that   I  was   looking  down   into  the   dry  bed   of 
some   primeval   cataract,  whose    mighty  rush    and    roar   the   imagination 


LOOKING   DOWN   THE    NOTCH. 


92  THE     HEART    OE    THE     WHITE     MOLXTAINS. 

summoned  again  from  the  tomb  of  ages,  and  whose  echo  was  in  the  cas- 
cades, huns  like  two  white  arms  on  the  black  and  hairy  breast  of  the 
adjacent  mountain.  This  idea  carries  us  back  to  the  Ueluge,  of  which 
science  pretends  to  have  found  proofs  in  the  basin  of  the  Notch.  What 
am  I  saying?  to  the  Deluge!  it  transports  us  to  the  Beginning  itself, 
when  ''  Darhu'ss  was  upon  the  face  of  the  deep.  And  the  Spirit  of  God 
moved  upon  the  face  of  the  waters" 

You  see  the  immense  walls  of  Mount  W'illey  on  one  side,  and  of 
Webster  on  the  other,  rushing  downward  thousands  of  feet,  and  meet- 
ing in  one  magnificently  imposing  sweep  at  their  bases.  This  vast  nat- 
ural inverted  archway  has  the  heavens  for  a  roof.  The  eye  roves  from 
the  shaggy  head  of  one  mountain  to  the  shattered  cornices  of  the  other. 
One  is  terrible,  the  other  forbidding.  The  naked  precipices  of  W'illey, 
furrowed  by  avalanches,  still  show  where  the  fatal  slide  of  1826  crushed 
its  way  down  into  the  valley,  traversing  a  mile  in  only  a  few  moments. 
Far  down  in  the  distance  you  see  the  Willey  hamlet  and  its  bright  clear- 
in":.     You  see  the  Saco's  silver. 

Such,  imperfectly,  are  the  more  salient  features  of  this  immense  cav- 
ity of  the  Notch,  three  miles  long,  two  thousand  feet  deep,  rounded  as  if 
by  art,  and  as  full  of  suggestions  as  a  ripe  melon  of  seeds.  1  recall  few 
natural  wonders  so  difficult  to  get  away  from,  or  that  haunt  you  so  per- 
petually. 

Like  ivy  on  storied  and  crumbling  towers,  so  high  up  the  cadaverous 
cliffs  of  Willey  the  hardy  fir-tree  feels  its  way,  insinuating  its  long  roots 
in  every  fissure  where  a  little  mould  has  crept,  but  mounting  always  like 
the  most  intrepid  of  climl^crs.  Upon  the  other  side,  the  massed  and 
plumed  forest  advances  boldly  up  the  sharp  declivity  of  Webster;  but  in 
mid-ascent  is  met  and  ploughed  in  long,  thin  lines  by  cataracts  of  stones, 
])()urcd  down  \\\w\-\  it  from  the  summit.  Only  a  few  straggling  bu>hes 
succeed  in  mounting  higher;  and  far  up,  upon  the  very  edge  of  the 
crumbling  j)arapet,  one  solitary  cedar  tottered.  The  thought  of  immi- 
nent destruction  prevailed  over  every  other.  Indeed,  it  seemed  as  if  one 
touch  would  precipitate  the  whole  mass  of  earth,  stones,  and  trees  into 
the  vale  beneath. 

Between  these  high,  receding  walls,  which  draw  widely  apart  at  the 
outlet  of  the  pass,  mountains  rise,  range  ujjon  range.  Over  the  flattened 
Nancy  summits,  Chocorua  lifts  his  crested  head  once  more  into  view. 
We  pass  in  review  the  summits  massed  between,  which  on  this  morning 


CRAWFORD'S. 


93 


were  of  a  deep  blue -black,  and  stood  vigorously  forth  from  a  sad  and 
boding  sky. 

From  the  ledges  of  Mount  Willard,  Washington  and  the  peaks  be- 
tween are  visible  in  a  clear  day.  This  morning  they  were  muffled  in 
clouds,  which  a  strong  upper  current  of  air  began  slowly  to  disperse. 
We,  therefore,  secured  a  good  position,  and  waited  patiently  for  the 
unveiling. 

Little  by  little  the  clouds  shook  themselves  free  from  the  mountain, 
and  besan  a  slow,  measured  movement  toward  the  Ammonoosuc  Val- 
ley.  As  they  were  drawn  out  thinner  and  thinner,  like  fleeces,  by  invisi- 
ble hands,  we  began  to  be  conscious  of  some  luminous  object  behind 
them,  and  all  at  once,  through  a  rift,  there  burst  upon  the  sight  the 
grand  mass  of  Washington,  all  resplendent  in  silvery  whiteness.  From 
moment  to  moment  the  trooping  clouds,  as  if  pausing  to  pay  homage 
to  the  illustrious  recluse,  encompassed  it  about.  Then  moving  on,  the 
endless  procession  again  and  again  disclosed  the  snowy  crest,  shining 
out  in  unshrouded  effulgence.  To  look  was  to  be  wonder-struck — to  be 
dumb. 

As  the  clouds  unrolled  more  and  more  their  snowy  billows,  other 
and  lower  summits  rose  above,  as  on  that  memorable  morn  after  the 
Deluge,  where  they  appeared  like  islands  of  crystal  floating  in  a  sea  of 
silvery  vapor.  We  gazed  for  an  hour  upon  this  unearthly  display,  which 
derived  unique  splendor  from  fitful  sun-rays  shot  through  the  folds  of 
surrounding  clouds,  then  drawing  off,  and  again  darting  unawares  upon 
the  stainless  white  of  the  summits.  It  was  a  dream  of  the  celestial 
spheres  to  see  the  great  dome,  one  moment  glittering  like  beaten  sil- 
ver, another  shining  with  the  dull  lustre  of  a  gigantic  opal. 

I  have  since  made  several  journeys  through  the  Notch  by  the  rail- 
way. The  effect  of  the  scenery,  joined  with  some  sense  of  peril  in  the 
minds  of  the  timid,  is  very  marked.  Old  travellers  find  a  new  and  veri- 
table sensation  of  excitement ;  while  new  ones  forget  fatigue,  drop  the 
novels  they  have  been  reading,  maintaining  a  state  of  breathless  sus- 
pense and  admiration  until  the  train  vanishes  out  at  the  rocky  portal, 
after  an  ascent  of  nearly  six  hundred  feet  in  two  miles. 

In  effect,  the  road  is  a  most  striking  expression  of  the  maxim,  "Z'^w- 
dace,  et  toujotcrs  de  Vaudace','  as  applied  to  modern  engineering  skill. 
From  Bemis's  to  Crawford's  its  way  is  literally  carved  out  of  the  side 
of  the  mountain.     But  if  the  engineers  have  stolen  a  march  upon  it,  the 


94  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

thought,  how  easily  the  mountain  could  shake  off  this  puny,  clinging 
thing,  prevailing  over  every  other,  announces  that  the  mountain  is  still 
the  master. 

There  are  no  two  experiences  which  the  traveller  retains  so  long  or 
so  vividly  as  this  journey  through  the  great  Notch,  and  this  survey  from 
the  ledges  of  Mount  Willard,  which  is  so  admirably  placed  to  command 
it.  To  mv  mind,  the  position  of  this  mountain  suggests  the  doubt 
whether  nature  did  not  make  a  mistake  here.  Was  not  the  splitting 
of  the  mountains  an  after-thought .-' 


THE    ASCEN2'    FROM    CRAWFORD'S. 


95 


X. 

THE    ASCENT   FROM    CRAWFORD'S. 

On  a  throne  of  rocks,  in  a  robe  of  clouds. 
With  a  diadem  of  snow. — Manfred. 

AT  five  in  the  morning  I  was  aroused  by  a  loud  rap  at  the  door.  In 
an  instant  I  had  jumped  out  of  bed,  ran  to  the  window,  and  peered 
out.  It  was  still  dark  ;  but  the  heavens  were  brigrht  with  stars,  so  brisht 
that  there  was  light  in  the  room.  Now  or  never  was  our  opportunity. 
Not  a  moment  was  to  be  lost. 

I  began  a  vigorous  reveille  upon  the  window-pane.  George  half 
opened  one  sleepy  eye,  and  asked  if  the  house  was  on  fire.  The  colonel 
pretended  not  to  have  heard. 

"  Up,  sluggards  !"  I  exclaimed  ;  "  the  mountain  is  ours  !" 

"  Do  you  know  who  first  tempted  man  to  go  up  into  a  high  moun- 
tain ?"  growled  George. 

"  Satan  !"  whined  a  smothered  voice  from  beneath  the  bedclothes. 

The  case  evidently  was  one  which  demanded  heroic  treatment.  In 
an  instant  I  whipped  off  the  bedclothes ;  in  another  I  received  two  vio- 
lent blows  full  in  the  chest,  which  compelled  me  to  give  ground.  The 
pillows  were  followed  by  the  bolster,  which  I  parried  with  a  chair,  the 
bolster  by  a  sortie  of  the  garrison  in  purls  naturalibus.  For  a  few  sec- 
onds the  melee  was  furious,  the  air  thick  with  flying  missiles.  By  a 
common  instinct  we  drew  apart,  with  the  intention  of  renewing  the  com- 
bat, when  we  heard  quick  blows  upon  the  partition  at  the  left,  and 
scared  voices  from  the  chamber  at  the  ritjht  demandinsf  what  was  the 
matter.  George  dropped  his  pillow,  and  articulated  in  a  broken  voice, 
"  Malediction  !  I  am  awake." 

"  Come,  gentlemen,"  I  urged,  "  if  you  are  sufficiently  diverted,  dress 
yourselves,  and  let  us  be  off.  At  the  present  moment  you  remind  me  of 
the  half-armed  warriors  on  the  pediment  of  the  Parthenon." 


96  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

"  I  take  it  you  mean  the  frieze,"  said  George,  with  chattering  teeth. 

The  colonel  was  on  all  fours,  picking  up  the  different  articles  of  his 
wardrobe  from  the  four  corners  of  the  chamber.  "  My  stocking,"  said 
he,  groping  among  the  furniture. 

"What  do  you  call  this?"  in(|uired  George,  fishing  the  drip])ing  arti- 
cle from  the  water-pitcher. 

"  Eh !  where  the  deuce  is  my  watch  ?"  rcdemanded  the  colonel,  still 
seeking. 

"  Perhaps  this  is  yours .?"  George  again  suggested,  drawing  it,  with 
mock  dexterity,  as  he  had  seen  Hermann  do,  from  a  boot-leg. 

We  quickly  threw  on  our  clothes,  but  at  the  moment  of  starting 
George  put  his  hand  into  his  breast  and  made  a  frightful  grimace. 

"What  is  it.'"  we  both  asked  in  one  breath.     "What  is  the  matter?" 

"  My  pocket-book  is  gone." 

After  five  minutes'  ransacking  in  every  hole  and  corner  of  the  room, 
and  after  shaking  the  bedclothes  carefully,  all  to  no  jnu-pose,  it  was  dis- 
covered that  George  and  myself  had  exchanged  coats.  We  then  went 
down-stairs  into  the  great  hall,  where  a  solitary  jet  of  gas  burnt  blue,  and 
a  sleepy  watchman  dozed  on  a  settee.  The  morning  air  was  more  than 
chilly:  it  was  "a  nipping  and  an  eager  air."  There  were  two  or  three 
futile  attempts  at  pleasantry,  but  hunger,  darkness,  and  the  cold  quickly 
silenced  them.  A  man  is  never  himself  when  roused  at  five  in  the 
morning.  No  matter  how  desirable  the  excursion  may  have  looked  the 
night  before,  turning  out  of  a  warm  bed  to  hurry  on  your  clothes  by 
candle-light,  and  to  take  the  road  fasting,  strips  it  of  all  glamour. 

Day  broke  disclosing  a  clear  sky,  up  which  the  rosy  tints  of  sunrise 
were  streaming.  The  last  star  trembled  in  the  zone  of  dusky  blue  above 
the  grand  old  hills,  like  a  tear-drop  on  the  eyelids  of  the  night.  The 
warm  color  flowed  over  the  frosted  heads  of  the  pines,  mantling  their 
ghastly  white  with  the  warm  glow  of  reviving  life.  Then  the  eye  fell 
upon  the  lower  forests,  still  wrapped  in  deep  shadows,  the  tiny  lake, 
the  boats,  and,  lastly,  the  oval  plain,  or  vestibule  of  the  Notch,  above 
which  ascended  the  shaggy  sides  of  Mount  Willard,  and  the  retreating 
outline  of  Mount  Webster.  The  little  plain  was  white  with  hoar-frost; 
the  frozen  fountain  dripped  slowly  into  its  basin,  like  a  penitent  telling 
its  beads. 

After  a  hasty  breakfast,  despatched  with  mountain  appetites,  behold 
us  at  half- past  six  entering  the  forest  in   Indian  file!     My  companions 


THE    ASCENT    FROM    C  K  A  W  E  O  R  D' S .  97 

atjaiii  found  their  accustomed  Q^avety,  and  soon  the  solemn  old  woods 
echoed  with  mirth.     Our  hopes  were  as  high  as  the  mountain  itself. 

A  detour  as  far  as  Gibbs's  Falls  cost  a  good  half-hour  in  recovering 
the  bridle-path;  but  we  were  at  length  en  ro^c/r,  myself  at  the  liead, 
George  behind.  The  colonel  carried  the  flask,  and  marched  in  the  mid- 
dle. He  was  considered  the  most  incorruptible  of  the  three ;  but  this 
precaution  was  deemed  an  indispensable  safeguard,  should  he,  in  a 
moment  of  forgetfulness,  carry  the  flask  to  his  lips. 

The  side  of  Mount  Clinton,  which  we  were  now  climbing,  is  very 
steep.  The  name  of  bridle-path,  which  they  give  the  long  gully  we  had 
entered,  is  a  snare  for  pedestrians,  but  a  greater  delusion  for  cavaliers. 
The  rains,  the  melting  snows,  have  so  channelled  it  as  to  leave  little 
besides  interlaced  roots  of  old  trees  and  loose  bowlders  in  its  bed. 
Higher  up  it  is  nothing  but  the  bare  course  of  a  mountain  torrent. 

The  long  rain  had  thoroughly  soaked  the  earth,  rendering  it  miry 
and  slippery  to  the  feet ;  the  heavy  air,  compounded  of  a  thousand 
odors,  hindered,  rather  than  assisted,  the  free  play  of  the  lungs.  Our 
progress  was  slow,  our  breathing  cjuick  and  labored.  Every  leaf  trem- 
bled with  rain -drops,  so  that  the  flight  of  a  startled  bird  overhead 
sprinkled  us  with  fine  spray.  Finches  chattered  in  the  tree-tops,  squir- 
rels scolded  us  sharply  from  fallen  logs. 

Looking  up  was  like  looking  through  some  glorious,  illuminated  win- 
dow— the  changed  foliage  seemed  to  have  fixed  the  gorgeous  hues  of  the 
sunset.  Through  its  crimson  and  gold,  violet  and  green,  patches  of  blue 
sky  greeted  us  wdth  fair  promise  for  the  day.  Looking  ahead,  the  path 
zigzagged  among  ascending  trees,  plunged  into  the  sombre  depths  above 
our  heads,  and  was  lost.  One  impression  that  I  received  may  be,  yet  I 
doubt,  common  to  others.  On  either  side  of  me  the  forest  seemed  all  in 
motion ;  the  dusky  trunks  striding  silently  and  stealthily  by,  moving 
when  we  moved,  halting  when  we  halted.  The  greenwood  was  as  full 
of  illusions  as  the  human  heart.  I  can  never  repress  a  certain  fear  in  a 
forest,  and  to-day  this  seemed  peopled  with  sprites,  gnomes,  and  fauns. 
Once  or  twice  a  crow  rose  lazily  from  the  top  of  a  dead  pine,  and  flew 
croaking  away ;  but  we  thought  not  of  omens  or  auguries,  and  pushed 
gayly  on  up  the  sharp  ascent. 

It  was  a  wild  woodland  walk,  with  few  glimpses  out  of  the  forest. 
For  about  a  mile  we  steered  toward  the  sun,  climbing  one  of  the  long 
braces  of  the   mountain.      Stopping  near  here,  at    a   spring   deliciously 

8 


98  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

pure  and  cold,  we  soon  turned  toward  the  north.  As  we  advanced  up 
the  mountain  the  sun  began  to  gild  the  tree -tops,  and  stray  beams  to 
play  at  hide-and-seek  among  the  black  trunks.  We  saw  dells  of  Arca- 
dian loveliness,  and  we  heard  the  noise  of  rivulets,  trickling  in  their 
depths,  that  we  did  not  see. 

Wh-r-r-r!  rose  a  startled  partridge,  directly  in  our  path,  bringing  us 
to  a  full  stop.     Another  and  another  took  flight. 

"  Gad !"  muttered  the  colonel,  wiping  his  forehead,  "  I  was  dreaming 
of  old  times ;  I  declare  I  thought  the  mountain  had  got  our  range,  and 
was  shelling  us." 

"  Sal»iis  of  partridge ;  sauce  aux  cIia))ipis;nons^'  said  George,  licking 
his  lips,  and  looking  wistfully  after  tlic  birds.  You  see,  one  spoke  from 
the  head,  the  other  from  the  stomach. 

Half  an  hour's  steady  tramp  brought  us  to  an  abandoned  camp, 
where  travellers  formerly  passed  the  night.  A  long  stretch  of  corduroy 
road,  and  we  were  in  the  region  of  resinous  trees.  Here  it  was  like 
going  up  rickety  stairs,  the  mossed  and  sodden  logs  affording  only  a 
treacherous  foothold.  Evidence  that  wc  were  nearing  the  summit  was 
on  all  sides.  Patches  of  snow  covered  the  ground  and  were  lodged 
among  the  branches.  From  these  little  runlets  made  their  way  into  the 
path,  as  the  most  convenient  channel.  There  were  many  dead  pines, 
having  their  curiously  distorted  limbs  hung  with  tlie  long  gray  lichen 
called  "old  man's  beard."  Multitudes  of  great  trees,  prostrated  by  the 
wind,  lay  rotting  along  the  ground,  or  had  lodged  in  falling,  constituting 
a  woful  picture  of  wreck  and  ruin.  Here  was  not  only  the  confusion 
and  havoc  of  a  primitive  forest,  untouched  by  the  axe,  but  the  battle- 
ground of  ages,  where  frost,  fire,  and  tlood  had  steadily  and  pitilessly 
beaten  the  forest  back  in  every  desperate  effort  made  to  scale  the  sum- 
mit. Prone  upon  the  earth,  stripped  naked,  or  bursting  their  bark,  the 
dead  trees  looked  like  fallen  giants  despoiled  of  their  armor,  and  left 
festering  upon  the  field.     But  we  advanced  to  a  scene  still  more  weird. 

The  last  mile  gives  occasional  glimpses  into  the  .Ammonoosuc  V'al- 
ley.  of  Fabyan's,  of  the  hamlet  at  the  ba.se  of  Washington,  and  of  the 
mountains  between  Fabyan's  and  Jefferson.  Tiie  last  half-mile  is  a 
steady  planting  of  one  foot  before  another  up  the  ledges.  We  left  the 
forest  for  a  scanty  growth  of  firs,  rooted  among  enormous  rocks,  and  hav- 
ing their  branches  pinned  down  to  their  sides  by  snow  and  ice.  The 
whole  forest  had  been  seized,  pinioned,  and  cast  into  a  death-like  stupor. 


THE     ASCENT    EROM     C  R  A  W  E  O  K  D' S .  99 

Each  tree  seemed  to  keep  the  attitude  in  which  it  was  first  overtaken ; 
each  silvered  head  to  have  dropped  on  its  breast  at  the  moment  the 
spell  overcame  it.  Perpetual  imprisonment  rewarded  the  temerity  of 
the  forest  for  thus  invadin'^  the  dominion  of  the  Ice  Kins:.  There  it 
stood,  all  glittering  in  its  crystal  chains ! 

But  as  we  threaded  our  way  among  these  trees,  still  as  statues,  the 
sun  came  valiantly  to  the  rescue.  A  warm  breath  fanned  our  cheeks 
and  traversed  the  ice -locked  forest.  Instantly  a  thrill  ran  along  the 
hiountain.  Quick,  snapping  noises  filled  the  air.  The  trees  burst  their 
fetters  in  a  trice.  Myriad  crystals  fluttered  overhead,  or  fell  tinkling  on 
the  rocks  at  our  feet.  Another  breath,  and  tree  after  tree  lifted  its  bowed 
head  gracefully  erect.     The  forest  was  free. 

George,  who  began  by  asking  every  few  rods  how  much  farther  it 
was,  now  repeated  the  question  for  the  fiftieth  time ;  but  we  paid  no 
attention. 

We  now  entered  a  sort  of  liliputian  forest,  not  higher  than  the  knee, 
but  which  must  have  presented  an  almost  insuperable  barrier  to  early 
explorers  of  the  mountain.  In  fact,  as  they  could  neither  go  through 
it  nor  around  it,  they  must  have  walked  over  it,  the  thick-matted  foliage 
rendering  this  the  only  alternative.  No  one  could  tell  how  long  these 
trees  had  been  growing,  when  a  winter  of  unheard-of  severity  destroyed 
them  all,  leaving  only  their  skeletons  bleaching  in  the  sun  and  weather. 
Wrenched,  twisted,  and  made  to  grow  the  wrong  way  by  the  wind,  the 
branches  resembled  the  cast-off  antlers  of  some  extinct  race  of  quadru- 
peds which  had  long  ago  resorted  to  the  top  of  the  mountain.  The  gir- 
dle of  blasted  trees  below  was  piteous,  but  this  was  truly  a  strange  spec- 
tacle. Indeed,  the  pallid  forehead  of  the  mountain  seemed  wearing  a 
crown  of  thorns. 

Getting  clear  of  the  dwarf-trees,  or  knee-wood,  as  it  is  called  in  the 
Alps,  we  ran  quickly  up  the  bare  summit  ledge.  The  transition  from 
the  gloom  and  desolation  below  into  clear  sunshine  and  free  air  was 
almost  as  great  as  from  darkness  to  light.  We  lost  all  sense  of  fatigue ; 
we  felt  only  exultation  and  supreme  content. 

Here  we  were,  we  three,  more  than  four  thousand  feet  above  the  sea, 
confronted  by  an  expanse  so  vast  that  no  eye  but  an  eagle's  might  grasp 
it,  so  thronged  with  upstarting  peaks  as  to  confound  and  bewilder  us  out 
of  all  power  of  expression.  One  feeling  was  uppermost — our  own  insig- 
nificance.    We  were  like  flies  on  the  gigantic  forehead  of  an  elephant. 


lOO  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

However,  \vc  had  climbed  and  were  astride  the  ridge-pole  of  New 
England.  The  rains  which  beat  upon  it  descend  on  one  side  to  the 
Atlantic,  on  the  other  to  Long  Island  Sound.  The  golden  sands  which 
are  the  glory  of  the  New  England  coast  have  been  borne,  atom  by  atom, 
grain  by  grain,  from  this  grand  laboratory  of  Nature ;  and  if  you  would 
know  the  source  of  her  great  industries,  her  wealth,  her  prosperity,  seek 
it  alone  the  rivers  which  are  born  of  these  skies,  cradled  in  these  ravines, 
and  nourished  amid  the  tangled  mazes  of  these  impenetrable  forests. 
How,  like  beautiful  serpents,  their  sources  lie  knotted  and  coiled  in  the 
heart  of  these  mountains !  How  lovingly  they  twine  about  the  feet  of  the 
grand  old  hills  !  Too  proud  to  bear  its  burdens,  they  create  commerce, 
building  cities,  scattering  wealth  as  they  run  on.  No  barriers  can  stay. 
no  chains  fetter  their  free  course.     They  laugh  and  run  on. 

W'e  stood  facing  the  south.  Far  down  beneath  us,  at  our  left,  was 
the  valley  of  Mount  Washington  River.  A  dark,  serpentine  rift  in  the 
unbroken  forest  indicated  the  course  of  the  stream.  Mechanically  we 
turned  to  follow  it  up  the  long  gorge  through  which  it  Hows,  to  where 
it  issues,  in  secret,  from  the  side  of  Mount  Washington  itself.  In  front 
of  us  arose  the  great  Notch  Mountains;  beyond,  mountains  were  piled 
on  mountains;  higher  still,  like  grander  edifices  of  some  imperial  city, 
towered  the  pinnacles  of  Lafayette,  Carrigain,  Chocorua,  Kearsarge,  and 
the  rest.  Yes,  there  they  were,  pricking  the  keen  air  with  their  blunted 
spears,  fretting  the  blue  vault  with  the  everlasting  menace  of  a  power  to 
mount  higher  if  it  so  willed,  filling  us  with  the  daring  aspiration  to  rise 
as  high  as  they  pointed.  Here  and  there  something  flashed  brightly 
upon  the  eye;  but  it  was  no  easy  thing  to  realize  that  those  little  pools 
we  saw  glistening  among  the  mountains  were  some  of  the  largest  lakes 
in  New  England. 

Leaving  the  massive  Franconia  grouj),  the  eye  swept  over  the  Ammo- 
noosuc  basin,  over  the  green  heights  of  Bethlehem  and  Littleton,  over- 
topped by  the  distant  Green  Mountains;  then  along  the  range  dividing 
the  waters  flowing  from  the  western  slopes  of  the  great  summits  into  sep- 
arate streams ;  then  Whitefield,  Lancaster,  Jefferson ;  and,  lastly,  rested 
upon  the  amazing  apparition  of  Washington,  rising  two  thousand  feet 
above  the  crags  on  which  we  stood.  Perched  upon  the  cap-stone  of 
this  massive  pile,  like  a  dove-cot  on  the  cupola  of  St.  Peter's,  we  dis- 
tinctly saw  the  Summit  House.  Between  us  and  our  goal  rose  the 
brown    heads    of    Pleasant,  p-ranklin,  and   Monroe,  over   which    our   path 


THE     ASCENT    FROM    CRAWFORD'S.  lOl 

lay.  All  these  peaks  and  their  connecting  ridges  were' freely  t^pattered 
with  snow.  ■'      ;■■"•■.:•;     -'. 

"  By  Jove !"  ejaculated  the  colonel  at  last ;  "  this  beats  Kentucky !" 

It  is  necessary  to  say  two  words  concerning  a  spectacle  equally 
novel  and  startling  to  dwellers  in  more  temperate  regions,  and  which 
now  held  us  in  mingled  astonishment  and  admiration.  We  could  hardly 
believe  our  eyes.  This  bleak  and  desolate  ridge,  where  only  scattered 
tufts  of  coarse  grass,  stinted  shrubs,  or  spongy  moss  gave  evidence  of 
life,  which  seemed  never  to  have  known  the  warmth  of  a  sunbeam, 
was  transformed  into  a  garden  of  exquisite  beauty  by  the  fro/x'n  north 
wind. 

We  remarked  the  iced  branches  of  dwarf  firs  inhabiting  the  upper 
zone  of  the  mountain  as  we  passed  them ;  but  here,  on  this  summit,  the 
surfaces  of  the  rocks  actually  bristled  with  spikes,  spear-heads,  and  lance- 
points,  all  of  ice,  all  shooting  in  the  direction  of  the  north  wind.  The 
forms  were  as  various  as  beautiful,  but  most  commonly  took  that  of  a 
single  spray,  though  sometimes  they  were  moulded  into  perfect  clusters 
of  berries,  branching  coral,  or  pendulous  crystals.  Common  shrubs  were 
transformed  to  diamond  aigrettes,  coarse  grasses  into  bird -of -paradise 
plumes,  by  the  simple  adhesion  of  frost-dust.  The  iron  rocks  attracted 
the  flying  particles  as  the  loadstone  attracts  steel.  Cellini  never  fash- 
ioned anything  half  so  marvellous  as  this  exc[uisite  workmanship  of  a 
frozen  mist.  Yet,  though  it  was  all  surpassingly  beautiful,  it  was 
strangely  suggestive  of  death.  There  was  no  life  —  no,  not  even  the 
chirrup  of  an  insect.     No  wonder  our  eyes  sought  the  valley. 

Hardly  had  we  time  to  take  in  these  unaccustomed  sights,  when,  to 
our  unspeakable  dismay,  ominous  streakings  of  gray  appeared  in  the 
southern  and  eastern  horizons.  The  sun  was  already  overclouded,  and 
emitted  only  a  dull  glare.  For  a  moment  a  premonition  of  defeat  came 
over  me ;  but  another  look  at  the  summit  removed  all  indecision,  and, 
without  mentioning  my  fears  to  my  companions,  we  all  three  plunged 
into  the  bushy  ravine  that  leads  to  Mount  Pleasant. 

Suddenly  I  felt  the  wind  in  my  face,  and  the  air  was  filled  with 
whirlino-  snow-flakes.  We  had  not  got  over  half  the  distance  to  the  sec- 
ond  mountain,  before  the  ill-omened  vapors  had  expanded  into  a  storm- 
cloud  that  boded  no  good  to  any  that  might  be  abroad  on  the  mountain. 
My  idea  was  that  we  could  gain  the  summit  before  it  overtook  us.  I 
accordingly  lengthened  my  steps,  and    we    moved  on   at  a  pace  which 


I02  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

brought  ui^.  qujckly^tc  .the  second  mountain.  But,  rapidly  as  we  had 
marchs^d,  thestorrn  was.betore  us. 

Here  began  our  first  experience  of  the  nature  of  the  task  in  hand. 
The  burly  side  of  Mount  Pleasant  was  safely  turned,  but  beyond  this 
snow  had  obliterated  the  path,  which  was  only  here  and  there  indicated 
by  little  heaps  of  loose  stones.  It  became  difficult,  and  we  frequently 
lost  it  altogether  among  the  deep  drifts.  We  called  a  halt,  passed  the 
flask,  and  attempted  to  derive  some  encouragement  from  the  prospect. 

The  storm-cloud  was  now  upon  us  in  downright  earnest.  Already 
the  flying  scud  drifted  in  our  faces,  and  poured,  like  another  Niagara, 
over  the  ridsfe  one  long:,  unbroken  billow.  The  sun  retreated  farther 
and  farther,  until  it  looked  like  a  farthing  dip  shining  behind  a  blanket. 
Another  furious  blast,  and  it  disappeared  altogether.  And  now,  to  render 
our  discomfiture  complete,  the  gigantic  dome  of  Washington,  that  had 
lured  us  on,  disappeared,  swallowed  up  in  a  vortex  of  whirling  vapor; 
and  presently  we  were  all  at  once  assailed  by  a  blinding  snow-squall. 
Henceforth  there  was  neither  luminarv  nor  landmark  to  iruide  us. 
None  of  us  had  any  knowledge  of  the  route,  and  not  one  had  thought 
of  a  guide.  To  render  our  situation  more  serious  still,  George  now 
declared  that  he  had  sprained  an  ankle. 

If  I  had  never  before  realized  how  the  most  vigorous  travellers  had 
perished  within  a  few  paces  of  the  summit,  I  understood  it  this  day. 

Bathed  in  perspiration,  warned  by  the  fresh  snow  that  the  path 
would  soon  be  lost  bej'ond  recovery,  we  held  a  brief  cfumcil  upon  the 
situation  before  and  behind  us.  It  was  more  than  aggravating  either 
way. 

All  three  secretly  favored  a  retreat.  Without  doubt  it  was  not  only 
the  safest,  but  the  wisest  course  to  pursue ;  yet  to  turn  back  was  to  give 
in  beaten,  and  defeat  was  not  easy  to  accept.  Even  George,  notwith- 
standing his  ankle,  was  pluckily  inclined  to  go  on.  There  was  no  time 
to  lose,  so  we  emerged  from  the  friendly  shelter  of  a  jutting  ledge  upon 
the  trackless  waste  before  us. 

From  this  point,  at  the  northern  foot  of  Pleasant,  progress  was  neces- 
sarily slow.  We  could  not  distinguish  objects  twenty  paces  through  the 
flying  scud  and  snow,  and  we  knew  vaguely  that  somewhere  here  the 
mountain  ridge  suddenly  broke  off,  on  both  sides,  into  precipices  thou- 
sands of  feet  down.  George,  being  lame,  kept  the  middle,  while  the 
colonel  and  I  searched  for  stone-heaps  at  the  right  and  left. 


THE    ASCENT    FROM    C RAWED RD'S.  103 

We  were  marchintr  alons  thus,  when  I  heard  an  exclamation,  and  saw 
the  colonel's  hat  driven  past  me  through  the  air.  The  owner  ran  rapidly 
over  to  my  side. 

"  Take  care  !"'  I  shouted,  throwing  myself  in  his  path  ;  "  take  care  !" 

"  But  my  hat !"  cried  he,  pushing  on  past  me.  The  wind  almost 
drowned  our  voices. 

"Are  you  mad.-'"'  I  screamed,  griping  his  arm,  and  forcing  him  back- 
ward by  main  strength. 

He  gave  me  a  dazed  look,  but  seemed  to  comprehend  nothing  of  my 
excitement.     George  halted,  looking  first  at  one,  then  at  the  other. 

"  Wait,"  said  I,  loosening  a  piece  of  ice  with  my  boot.  On  both 
sides  of  us  rose  a  whirlpool  of  boiling  clouds.  I  tossed  the  piece  of  ice 
in  the  direction  the  hat  had  taken  —  not  a  sound;  a  second  after  the 
first — the  same  silence;  a  third  in  the  opposite  direction.  We  listened 
intently,  painfully,  but  could  hear  nothing  except  the  loud  beating  of  our 
own  hearts.  A  dozen  steps  more  would  ha\'e  precipitated  our  compan- 
ion from  the  top  to  the  bottom  of  the  mountain. 

I  looked  at  the  man  whose  arm  I  still  tightly  grasped.  He  was  as 
]:)ale  as  a  corpse. 

"  This  must  be  Oakes's  Gulf,"  I  ventured,  in  order  to  break  the  silence, 
after  we  had  all  taken  a  pull  at  the  flask. 

"  This  is  Oakes's  Gulf — agreed ;  but  where  in  perdition  is  my  hat  ?" 
demanded  the  colonel,  wiping  the  big  drops  from  his  forehead. 

After  he  had  tied  a  handkerchief  around  his  head,  we  crossed  this 
Devil's  Bridge,  with  the  caution  of  men  fully  alive  to  the  consequences 
of  a  false  step,  and  with  that  tension  of  the  nerves  which  announces  the 
terrible  or  the  unknown.' 

We  had  not  gone  far  when  a  tremendous  gust  sent  us  reeling  toward 
the  abyss.  I  dropped  on  my  hands  and  knees,  and  my  companions  fol- 
lowed suit.  We  arose,  shook  off  the  snow,  and  slowly  mounted  the  long, 
steep,  and  rocky  side  of  Franklin.  Upon  gaining  the  summit,  the  walk- 
ing was  better.     We  were  also  protected  by  the  slope  of  the  mountain. 


'  I  have  since  passed  over  the  same  route  without  finding  those  sensations  to  which  our 
inexperience,  and  the  tempest  whicli  surrounded  us,  rendered  us  peculiarly  liable.  In  reality, 
the  ridge  connecting  INIount  Pleasant  with  Mount  Franklin  is  passed  without  hesitation,  in 
good  weather,  by  the  most  timid  ;  but  when  a  rod  of  the  way  cannot  be  seen  the  case  is  dif- 
ferent, and  caution  necessary.  The  view  of  this  natural  bridge  from  the  summit  of  Mount 
Franklin  is  one  of  the  imposing  sights  of  the  day's  march. 


I04  THE     HEART     OF     THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

The  worst  seemed  over.  But  what  fantastic  objects  were  the  big  rocks, 
scattered,  or  rather  lying  in  wait,  along  our  route !  What  grotesque 
appearances  continually  started  out  of  the  clouds !  Now  it  was  an  enor- 
mous bear  squatted  on  his  haunches;  now  a  dark -browed  sphinx;  and 
more  than  once  we  could  have  sworn  we  saw  human  beings  stealthily 
watching  us  from  a  distance.  How  easy  to  imagine  these  weird  objects 
lost  travellers,  suddenly  turned  to  stone  for  their  presumptuous  invasion 
of  the  domain  of  terrors !  It  really  seemed  as  if  we  had  but  to  stamp 
our  feet  to  see  a  le2:ion  of  demons  start  into  life  and  bar  our  wav. 

Say  what  you  will,  we  could  not  shake  off  the  dread  which  these 
unearthly  objects  inspired;  nor  could  we  forbear,  were  it  at  the  risk  of 
being  turned  to  stone,  looking  back,  or  peering  furtively  from  side  to 
side  when  some  new  apparition  thrust  its  hideous  suggestions  before  us. 
What  would  you  have  ?  Are  we  not  all  cJiildren  who  shrink  from  enter- 
ing a  haunted  chamber,  and  shudder  in  the  presence  of  death  .''  Well, 
the  mountain  was  haunted,  and  death  seemed  near.  We  forgot  fatigue, 
forgot  cold,  to  yield  to  this  mysterious  terror,  which  daunted  us  as  no 
peril  could  do,  and  froze  us  with  vague  presentiment  of  the  unknown. 

Covered  from  head  to  foot  with  snow,  bearded  with  icicles,  tracking 
this  solitude,  which  refused  the  echo  of  a  foot -fall,  like  spectres,  we 
seemed  to  have  entered  the  debatable  ground  forever  dedicated  to  spirits 
having  neither  home  on  earth  nor  hope  in  heaven,  but  doomed  to  wan- 
der up  and  down  these  livid  crags  for  an  eternity  of  woe.  The  moun- 
tain had  already  taken  possession  of  our  physical,  now  it  seized  upon  our 
moral  nature.  Neither  the  one  nor  the  other  could  resist  the  impres- 
sions which  naked  rock,  furious  tempest,  and  hidden  danger  stamped  on 
every  foot  of  the  way. 

In  this  way  we  reached  Mount  Monroe,  last  of  the  peaks  in  our 
route  to  the  summit,  where  we  were  forced  to  pick  our  way  among  the 
rocks,  struggling  forward  through  drifts  frequently  waist  deep. 

It  was  here  that,  finding  myself  some  distance  in  advance  of  the  oth- 
ers— for  poor  George  was  lagging  painfully — I  halted  for  them  to  come 
up.  I  was  choking  with  thirst,  aggravated  by  eating  the  damp  snow. 
As  soon  as  the  colonel  was  near  enough — the  wind  only  could  be  heard 
—  I  made  a  gesture  of  a  man  drinking.  He  did  not  seem  to  under- 
stand, though  I  impatiently  repeated  the  pantomime.  He  came  to  where 
I  stood. 

"  The  flask  !"  I  exclaimed. 


THE     ASCENT    FROM    C R A  JV E O A' £>' S .  105 

He  drew  it  slowly  from  his  pocket,  and  handed  it  to  me  with  a  hang- 
dog look  that  I  failed  for  the  moment  to  interpret.  I  jjut  it  to  my  lips, 
shook  it,  turned  it  bottom  up.      Not  a  drop ! 

And,  nevertheless,  this  was  the  man  in  whom  I  had  trusted.  Ca>sar 
only  succumbed  to  the  dagger  of  Brutus ;  but  I  had  not  the  courage  to 
fall  with  dignity  under  this  new  misfortune,  and  so  stood  staring  at  the 
flask  and  the  culprit  alternately. 

"  Say  that  our  cup  is  now  full,"  suggested  the  incorrigible  George. 
"  The  paradox  strikes  me  as  ingenious  and  appropriate." 

It  really  was  too  bad.  Snow  and  sleet  had  wet  us  to  the  skin,  and 
clung  to  our  frozen  garments.  Our  hands  and  faces  were  swollen  and 
inflamed;  our  eyes  half  closed  and  blood- shot.  Even  this  short  min- 
ute's halt  set  our  teeth  chattering.  George  could  only  limp  along,  and 
it  was  evident  could  not  hold  out  much  longer.  Just  now  my  uneasi- 
ness was  greater  than  my  sympathy.  He  was  an  accessory  before  the 
fact ;  for,  while  I  was  diligently  looking  out  the  path,  he  had  helped  the 
colonel  to  finish  the  flask. 

We  were  nearing  the  goal :  so  much  was  certain.  But  the  violence 
of  the  gale,  increasing  with  the  greater  altitude,  warned  us  against  delay. 
We  therefore  pushed  on  across  the  stony  terraces  extending  beyond,  and 
were  at  length  rewarded  by  seeing  before  us  the  heaped-up  pile  of  broken 
granite  constituting  the  peak  of  Washington,  and  which  we  knew  still 
rose  a  thousand  feet  above  our  heads.  The  sight  of  this  towering  mass, 
which  seems  formed  of  the  debris  of  the  Creation,  is  well  calculated  to 
stagger  more  adventurous  spirits  than  the  three  weary  and  foot-sore 
men  who  stood  watching  the  cloud-billows,  silently  rolling  up,  dash  them- 
selves unceasingly  against  its  foundations.  We  looked  first  at  the  moun- 
tain, then  in  each  others  faces,  then  began  the  ascent. 

For  near  an  hour  we  toiled  upward,  sometimes  up  to  the  middle  in 
snow,  always  carefully  feeling  our  way  among  the  treacherous  pitfalls  it 
concealed.  Compelled  to  halt  every  few  rods  to  recover  breath,  the  dis- 
tance traversed  could  not  be  great.  Still,  with  dogged  perseverance,  we 
kept  on,  occasionally  lending  each  other  a  helping  hand  out  of  a  drift,  or 
from  rock  to  rock ;  but  no  words  were  exchanged,  for  the  stock  of  gayety 
with  which  we  set  out  was  now  exhausted.  The  gravity  of  the  situation 
began  to  create  uneasiness  in  the  minds  of  my  companions.  All  at  once 
I  heard  my  name  called  out.  I  turned.  It  was  the  colonel,  whose  hal- 
loo in  midst  of  this  stony  silence  startled  me. 


I06  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

"  You  pretend,"  he  began,  "  that  its  only  a  thousand  feet  from  the 
plateau  to  the  top  of  this  accursed  mountain  ?" 

"  No  more,  no  less.     Professor  Guyot  assures  us  of  the  fact." 

"Well,  then,  here  we  have  been  zigzagging  about  for  a  good  hour, 
haven't  we  ?" 

"An  hour  and  twenty  minutes,"  said  I,  consulting  my  watch. 

"And  not  a  sign  of  the  houses  or  the  railway,  or  any  other  creep- 
ing thing.     Do  you  want  my  opinion  T 

"  Charmed." 

"  We  have  passed  the  houses  without  seeing  them  in  the  storm,  and 
are  now  on  the  side  of  the  mountain  opposite  from  where  we  started." 

"  So  tliat  you  conclude — .?" 

"  We  are  lost." 

This  was,  of  course,  mere  guesswork ;  but  we  had  no  compass,  and 
might  be  travelling  in  the  wrong  direction,  after  all.  A  moment's  re- 
flection,  however,  reassured  me.  "Is  that  your  opinion,  too,  George.-'"  I 
asked. 

George  had  taken  off  his  boot,  and  was  chafing  his  swollen  ankle. 
He  looked  up. 

"  My  opinion  is  that  I  don't  know  anything  about  it ;  but  as  you  got 
us  into  this  scrape,  you  had  better  get  us  out  of  it,  and  be  spry  about  it 
too,  for  the  deuce  take  me  if  I  can  go  much  farther. " 

"  Why,"  croaked  the  colonel,  "  I  recollect  hearing  of  a  traveller  who, 
like  us,  actually  walked  by  the  Summit  House  without  seeing  it,  when 
he  was  hailed  by  a  man  who,  by  mere  accident,  chanced  to  be  outside, 
and  who  imagined  he  saw  something  moving  in  the  fog.  In  five  min- 
utes the  stranger  would  inevitably  have  walked  over  a  precipice  with  his 
eyes  open." 

"And  I  remember  seeing  on  the  wall  of  the  ta\'ern  where  we  stop- 
ped, at  Bartlett,  a  placard  offering  a  reward  for  a  man  who,  like  us,  set 
out  from  Crawford's,  and  was  never  heard  of,"  George  put  in.^ 

"And  I  read  of  one  who,  like  us,  almost  reached  the  summit,  but 
mistaking  a  lower  peak  for  the  pinnacle,  losing  his  head,  crawled,  ex- 
hausted, under  a  rock  to  die  there,"  I  finished,  firing  the  last  shot. 

Without  another  word  both  my  comrades  grappled   vigorously  with 


'  The  remains  of  this  ill-fated  climber  have  since  been  found  at  the  foot  of  the  pinnacle. 
See  chapter  on  Mount  Washington. 


THE    ASCENT    FROM    CRAWFORD'S.  107 

the  mountain,  and  for  ten  minutes  nothing  was  heard  l^ut  our  labored 
breathing.  On  whatever  side  we  might  be,  so  long  as  we  continued  to 
ascend  I  had  little  fear  of  being  in  the  wrong  road.  Our  affair  was  to 
get  to  the  top. 

At  the  end  of  ten  minutes  we  came  suddenly  upon  a  walled  en- 
closure, which  we  conjectured  to  be  the  corral  at  the  end  of  the  bridle- 
path. We  hailed  it  like  an  oasis  in  the  midst  of  this  desert.  We  en- 
tered, brushed  the  snow  from  a  stone,  and  sat  down. 

Up  to  this  time  my  umbrella  had  afforded  a  good  deal  of  merri- 
ment to  my  companions,  who  could  not  understand  why  I  encumbered 
myself  with  it  on  a  day  which  began  as  this  one  did,  perfectly  clear 
and  cloudless.  Since  the  storm  came  on,  the  force  of  the  wind  would 
at  any  time  have  lifted  off  his  feet  the  man  who  attempted  to  spread 
it,  and  even  if  it  had  not,  as  well  might  one  have  walked  blindfolded 
in  that  treacherous  road  as  with  an  open  umbrella  before  him.  Now  it 
was  my  turn,  or,  rather,  the  turn  of  the  abused  umbrella.  A  few  mo- 
ments of  rest  were  absolutely  necessary ;  but  the  wind  cut  like  a  cim- 
eter,  and  we  felt  ourselves  freezing.  I  opened  the  umbrella,  and,  pro- 
tected by  it  from  the  wind,  we  crouched  under  its  friendly  shelter,  and 
lighted  our  cigars.  Never  before  did  I  know  the  luxury  of  a  smoke  like 
that. 

"  Now,"  said  I,  complacently  glancing  up  at  our  tent,  "  ever  since  I 
read  how  an  umbrella  saved  a  man's  life,  I  determined  never  to  go  on  a 
mountain  without  one." 

"  An  umbrella !  How  do  you  make  that  out  T  demanded  both  my 
auditors. 

"  It  is  very  simple.  He  was  lost  on  this  very  mountain,  under  con- 
ditions similar  to  those  we  are  now  experiencing,  except  that  his  carry- 
ing an  umbrella  was  an  accident,  and  that  he  was  alone.  ■  He  passed 
two  nights  under  it.     But  the  story  will  keep." 

It  may  well  be  imagined  that  we  had  not  the  least  disposition  to  be 
merry;  yet  for  all  that  there  was  something  irresistibly  comical  in  three 
men  sitting  with  their  feet  in  the  snow,  and  putting  their  heads  together 
under  a  single  umbrella.  Various  were  the  conjectures.  We  could  hear 
nothing  but  the  rushing  wind,  see  nothing  but  driving  sleet.  George  be- 
lieved we  were  still  half  a  mile  from  the  summit ;  the  colonel  was  not 
able  to  precisely  fix  his  opinion,  but  thought  us  still  a  long  way  off. 
After   diligent   search,  in  which   we   all  joined,  I   succeeded    in    finding 


lo8  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MO  UNTAINS. 

something  like  a  path  turning  to  the  right,  and  we  again  resumed  our 
slow  clambering  over  the  rocks. 

Perhaps  ten  minutes  passed  thus,  when  we  again  halted  and  peered 
anxiously  into  the  whirling  vapor  —  nothing,  neither  monument  nor 
stone,  to  indicate  where  we  were.  A  new  danger  confronted  us ;  one  I 
had  hitherto  repulsed  because  I  dared  not  think  of  it.  The  light  was 
failing,  and  darkness  would  soon  be  here.  God  help  any  that  this  night 
surprised  on  the  mountain !  While  we  eagerly  sought  on  all  sides  some 
evidence  that  human  feet  had  ever  passed  that  way,  a  terrific  blast,  that 
seemed  to  concentrate  the  fury  of  the  tempest  in  one  mighty  effort, 
dashed  us  helpless  upon  the  rocks.  For  some  seconds  we  were  blinded, 
and  could  only  crouch  low  until  its  violence  subsided.  But  as  the  mon- 
strous wave  recoiled  from  the  mountain,  a  piercing  cry  brought  us 
cjuickly  to  our  feet. 

"Look!"  shouted  George,  waving  his  hat  like  a  madman — "look 
there !"  he  repeated. 

Vaguely,  through  the  tattered  clouds,  like  a  wreck  driving  miserably 
before  the  tempest,  we  distinguished  a  building  propped  up  by  timbers 
crusted  with  thick  ice.  The  gale  shook  and  beat  upon  it  with  demonia- 
cal glee,  but  never  did  weary  eyes  rest  on  a  more  welcome  object.  For 
ten  seconds,  perhaps,  we  held  it  in  view ;  then,  in  a  twinkling,  the  clouds 
rolled  over  it,  shut  together,  and  it  was  gone  —  swallowed  up  in  the 
vortex. 

A  moment  of  bewilderment  succeeded,  after  which  we  made  a  simul- 
taneous rush  in  the  direction  of  the  building.  In  five  minutes  more  we 
were  within  the  hotel,  thawing  our  frozen  clothing  before  a  rousing  fire. 

It  provokes  a  smile  when  I  think  of  it.  Here,  in  this  frail  structure, 
perched  like  another  Noah's  Ark  on  its  mountain,  and  which  every  gust 
threatened  to  scatter  to  the  winds  of  heaven,  a  grand  i:)iano  was  going  in 
the  parlor,  a  telegraphic  instrument  clicked  in  a  corner,  and  we  sat  clown 
to  a  mimi  that  made  the  colonel  forget  the  loss  of  his  hat. 

"  By  the  bones  of  Daniel  Boone !  I  can  say  as  Napoleon  did  on  the 
Great  St.  Bernard, '  I  have  spoiled  a  hat  among  your  mountains ;  well,  I 
shall  find  a  new  one  on  the  other  side,'  "  observed  the  colonel,  uncorking 
a  second  bottle  of  champagne. 


SECOND    JOURNEY. 


PAGE 

I.   LEGENDS  OF    THE  CRYSTAL   HILLS 113 

II.    JACKSON  AND    THE  ELLIS   VALLEY 122 

III.  THE  CARTER  NOTCH 132 

IV.  THE  PINKHAM  NOTCH 144 

V.    A    SCRAMBLE  IN   TUCKERMAN'S 155 

VI.   IN  AND  ABOUT  GORHAM 165 

VII.   ASCENT  BY    THE  CARRIAGE-ROAD 178 

VIII.   MOUNT   WASHINGTON 189 


MUtii-J/^ 


SECOND  JOURNEY. 
I. 

LEGENDS    OF    THE    CRYSTAL    HILLS. 

My  lord,  I  will  hoist  saile ;  and  all  the  wind 
My  bark  can  beare  shall  hasten  me  to  find 
A  great  new  world, — Sir  W.  Davenant. 

WHEN  Cabot,  in  the  Matheiv,  of  Bristol,  was  sailing  by  the  New 
England  coast,  and  the  amazed  savage  beheld  a  pyramid  of  white 
sails  rising,  like  a  cloud,  out  of  the  sea,  the  navigator  saw  from  the  deck 
of  his  ship,  rising  out  of  the  land,  a  cluster  of  lofty  summits  cut  like  a 
cameo  on  the  northern  sky. 

The  Indian  left  his  tradition  of  the  marvellous  apparition,  which  he 
at  first  believed  to  be  a  mass  of  trees  wrapped  in  faded  foliage,  drifting 
slowly  at  the  caprice  of  the  waves ;  but,  as  he  gazed,  fire  streamed  from 
the  strange  object,  a  cloud  shut  it  from  his  view,  and  a  peal  like  distant 
thunder  was  wafted  on  the  breeze  to  his  startled  ears.  That  peal  an- 
nounced the  doom  of  his  race.     He  was  looking  at  the  first  ship. 

Succeeding  navigators,  Italians,  Portuguese,  French,  English  —  a  roll 
of  famous  names — sailed  these  seas,  and,  in  their  turn,  hailed  the  distant 
summits.  They  became  the  great  distinguishing  landmarks  of  this  cor- 
ner of  the  New  World.  They  are  found  on  all  the  maps  traced  by  the 
early  geographers  from  the  relations  of  the  discoverers  themselves.  Hav- 
ing thus  faund  form  and  substance,  they  also  found  a  name — the  Moun- 
tains of  St.  John. 

Ships  multiplied.  Men  of  strange  garb,  speech,  complexion,  erected 
their  habitations  along  the  coast,  the  unresisting  Indian  never  dreaming 
that  the  thin  line  which  the  sea  had  cast  up  would  speedily  rise  to  an 
inundation  destined  to  sweep  him  from  the  face  of  the  earth.  Then 
began  that  steady  advance,  slow  at  first,  gathering  momentum  with  the 
years,  before  which  he  recoiled  step  by  step,  and  finally  disappeared  for- 

9 


114  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

ever.  His  destiny  was  accomplished.  To-day  only  mountains  and 
streams  transmit  to  us  the  certainty  that  he  ever  did  exist.  They  are 
his  monument,  his  lament,  his  eternal  accusation. 

The  White  Mountains  stood  for  the  Indian  not  only  as  an  image, 
but  as  the  actual  dwelling-place  of  Omnipotence.  His  dreaded  Manitou, 
whose  voice  was  the  thunder,  whose  anger  the  lightning,  and  on  whose 
face  no  mortal  could  look  and  live,  was  the  counterpart  of  the  terrible 
Thor,  the  Icelandic  god,  throned  in  a  palace  of  ice  among  frozen  and 
inaccessible  mountain  peaks,  over  which  he  could  be  heard  urging  his 
loud  chariot  amid  the  rage  of  the  tempest.  Frost  and  fire,  plague  and 
famine  were  the  terrific  natural  agents  common  to  the  Indian  and  to 
the  Norse  mythology;  and  to  his  god  of  terrors  the  Indian  conjurer 
addressed  his  prayers,  his  incantations,  and  his  propitiatory  offerings, 
when  some  calamity  had  befallen  or  threatened  his  tribe.  But  to  cross 
the  boundary  which  separated  him  from  the  abiding- place  of  the  Mani- 
tou !  plant  his  audacious  foot  within  the  region  from  which  Nature 
shrunk  back  affrichted !  Not  all  the  wealth  he  believed  the  mountain 
hoarded  would  ha\e  tempted  him  to  brave  the  swift  and  terrible  ven- 
geance of  the  justly  offended,  all-powerful  Manitou.  So  far,  then,  as  he 
was  concerned,  the  mountain  remained  inviolate,  inviolable,  as  a  kind  of 
hell,  filled  with  the  despairing  shrieks  of  those  who  in  an  evil  hour  trans- 
gressed the  limits  sacred  to  immortals.' 

As  a  pendant  to  this  superstition,  in  which  their  deity  is  with  simple 
grandeur  throned  on  the  highest  mountain  peak,  it  is  curious  to  remem- 
ber the  Indian  tradition  of  the  Deluge ;  for,  like  so  many  peoples,  they 
had  their  tradition,  coming  from  a  remote  time,  and  having  strong  family 
resemblance  with  that  of  more  enlightened  nations.     According  to  it,  all 


'  This  analogy  of  belief  may  be  carried  farther  still,  to  the  populations  of  Asia,  which  sur- 
round the  great  "Abode  of  Snow" — the  Himalayas.  It  would  be  interesting  to  see  in  this 
similarity  of  religious  worship  a  link  between  the  Asiatic,  the  primitive  man.  and  the  Ameri- 
can—  the  most  recent,  and  the  most  unfortunate.  Our  province  is  simply  to  recount  a  fact 
to  which  the  brothers  Schlaginweit  ("  Exploration  do  la  Haute  Asie  ")  bear  witness  ; 

•■  It  is  in  spite  of  himself,  under  the  enticement  of  a  great  reward,  that  the  superstitious 
Hindoo  decides  to  accompany  the  traveller  into  the  mountains,  which  he  dreads  less  for  the 
unknown  dangers  of  the  ascent  than  for  the  sacrilege  he  believes  he  is  committing  in  approach- 
ing the  holy  asylum,  the  inviolable  sanctuar)'  of  the  gods  he  reveres ;  his  trouble  becomes  ex- 
treme when  he  sees  in  the  peak  to  be  climbed  not  the  mountain,  but  the  god  whose  name  it 
bears.  Henceforth  it  is  by  sacrifice  and  prayer  alone  that  he  may  appease  the  profoundly 
offended  deity." 


LEGENDS    OF    THE     CRYSTAL    HILLS.  1 15 

the  inhabitants  of  the  earth  were  drowned,  except  one  Powaw  and  his 
wife,  who  were  preserved  by  climbing  to  the  top  of  the  White  Moun- 
tains, and  who  were  the  progenitors  of  the  subsequent  races  of  man. 
The  Powaw  took  with  him  a  hare,  which,  upon  the  subsiding  of  the 
waters,  he  freed,  as  Noah  did  the  dove,  seeing  in  its  prolonged  absence 
the  assurance  that  he  and  his  companion  might  safely  descend  to  earth. 
The  likeness  of  this  tradition  with  the  story  of  Deucalion,  and  Pyrrha, 
his  wife,  as  related  by  Ovid,  is  very  striking.  One  does  not  easily  con- 
sent to  refer  it  to  accident  alone. 

There  is  one  thing  more.  When  asked  by  the  whites  to  point  out 
the  Indian's  heaven,  the  savas:e  stretched  his  arm  in  the  direction  of  the 
White  Hills,  and  replied  that  heaven  was  just  beyond.  Such  being  his 
religion,  and  such  the  influence  of  the  mountain  upon  this  highly  imag- 
inative, poetic,  natural  man,  one  finds  himself  drawn  legitimately  in  the 
train  of  those  marvels  which  our  ancestors  considered  the  most  credible 
things  in  the  world,  and  which  the  sceptical  cannot  explain  by  a  sneer. 

According  to  the  Indians,  on  the  highest  mountain,  suspended  from 
a  crag  overlooking  a  dismal  lake,  was  an  enormous  carbuncle,  which 
many  declared  they  had  seen  blazing  in  the  night  like  a  live  coal. 
Some  even  asserted  that  its  ruddy  glare  lighted  the  livid  rocks  around 
like  the  fire  of  a  midnight  encampment,  while  by  day  it  emitted  rays, 
like  the  sun,  dazzling  to  look  upon.  And  this  extraordinary  sight  they 
declared  they  had  not  only  seen,  but  seen  again  and  again. 

It  is  true  that  the  Indians  did  not  hesitate  to  declare  that  no  mortal 
hand  could  hope  to  grasp  the  great  fire-stone.  It  was,  said  they,  in  the 
special  guardianship  of  the  genius  of  the  mountain,  who,  on  the  ap- 
proach of  human  footsteps,  troubled  the  waters  of  the  lake,  causing  a 
dark  mist  to  rise,  in  which  the  venturesome  mortal  became  bewildered, 
and  then  hopelessly  lost.  Several  noted  conjurers  of  the  Pigwackets, 
rendered  foolhardy  by  their  success  in  exorcising  evil  spirits,  so  far  con- 
quered their  fears  as  to  ascend  the  mountain ;  but  they  never  returned, 
and  had,  no  doubt,  expiated  their  folly  by  being  transformed  into  stone, 
or  flung  headlong  down  some  stark  and  terrible  precipice. 

This  tale  of  the  great  carbuncle  fired  the  imagination  of  the  simple 
settlers  to  the  highest  pitch.  We  believe  what  we  wish  to  believe,  and, 
notwithstanding  their  religion  refused  to  admit  the  existence  of  the  In- 
dian demon,  its  guardian,  they  seem  to  have  had  little  difificulty  in  cred- 
iting the  reality  of  the  jewel  itself.     At   any  rate,  the    belief  that    the 


Il6  THE     HEART    OE    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

mountain  shut  up  precious  mines  has  come  down  to  our  own  day;  we 
are  assured  by  a  learned  historian  of  fifty  years  ago  that  the  story  of  the 
crreat  carbuncle  still  found  full  credence  in  his.'  We  are  now  acquainted 
with  the  spirit  of  the  time  when  the  first  attempt  to  scale  the  mountain, 
known  to  us,  was  rewarded  with  complete  success.  But  the  record  is  of 
exasperating  bre\ity. 

Among  the  earliest  settlers  of  E.xeter,  New  Hampshire,  was  a  man 
by  the  name  of  Darby  Field.  The  antecedents  of  this  obscure  person- 
age are  securely  hidden  behind  the  mists  of  more  than  two  centuries. 

A  hundred  and  twenty -five  years  before  the  ascent  of  Mont  Blanc 
by  Jacques  Balmat,  Darby  Field  successfully  ascended  to  the  summit  of 
the  "White  fiill,"  to-day  known  as  Mount  Washington;  but  the  exploit 
of  the  adventurous  Irishman  is  far  more  remarkable  in  its  way  than  that 
of  the  brave  Swiss,  since  he  had  to  make  his  way  for  eighty  miles 
through  a  wilderness  inhabited  only  by  beasts  of  prey,  or  by  human 
beings  scarcely  less  savage,  before  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  great 
ranee ;  while  Balmat  lived  under  the  verv  shadow  of  the  monarch  of 
the  Alps,  so  that  its  spectre  was  forever  crossing  his  path.  I-'urther- 
more,  the  greater  part  of  the  ascent  of  Mont  Blanc  was  already  familiar 
ground  to  the  guides  and  chamois-hunters  of  the  Swiss  Alps.  On  the 
contrary,  according  to  every  probability,  Field  was  the  first  human 
beins  whose  daring  foot  invaded  the  hitherto  inviolable  seclusion  of  the 
illustrious  hermit  of  New  England. 

For  such  an  adventure  one  instinctively  seeks  a  motive.  I  did  not 
long  amuse  myself  with  the  idea  that  this  explorer  climbed  merely  for 
the  sake  of  climbing;  and  I  have  little  notion  that  he  dreamed  of  post- 
humous renown.  It  is  far  more  probable  that  the  reports  brought  by 
the  Indians  of  the  fabulous  treasures  of  the  mountains  led  to  Field's 
long,  arduous,  and  really  perilous  journey.  It  is  certain  that  he  was  pos- 
sessed of  rare  intrepidity,  as  well  as  the  true  craving  for  adventure. 
That  goes  without  saying;  still,  the  whole  undertaking  —  its  inception, 
its  pursuit  to  the  end  in  the  face  of  extraordinary  obstacles,  which  he 
had  no  means  of  measuring  or  anticipating — announces  a  very  different 
sort  of  man  from  the  ordinary,  a  purpose  before  which  all  dangers  dis- 
appear. 

In  June,  1642,  that  is  to  say,  only  twelve  years  after  the  Puritan  set- 


Sullivan  :  "  History  of  Maine." 


LEGE  ND  S    O  F    THE    CK  YS  TA  L     HIL  LS.  117 

tlements  in   Massachusetts   Bay,  Field  set  out  from  the  sea-coast  for  the 
White  Hills. 

So  far  as  known,  he  prosecuted  his  journey  to  the  Indian  village  of 
Pigwacket,  the  existence  of  which  is  thus  established,  without  note- 
worthy accident  or  adventure.  Here  he  was  joined  by  some  Indians, 
who  conducted  him  within  eight  miles  of  the  summit,  when,  declaring 
that  to  go  farther  would  expose  them  to  the  wrath  of  their  great  Evil 
Spirit,  they  halted,  and  refused  to  proceed.  The  brave  Irishman  was 
equal  to  the  emergency.  To  turn  back,  baffled,  within  sight  of  his  goal 
was  evidently  not  an  admitted  contingency.  Leaving  the  Indians,  there- 
fore, squatted  upon  the  rocks,  and  no  doubt  regarding  him  as  a  man 
rushing  upon  a  fool's  fate,  Field  again  resolutely  faced  the  mountain, 
when,  seeing  him  equally  unmoved  by  their  warnings  as  unshaken  in  his 
determination  to  reach  the  summit,  two  of  the  boldest  warriors  ran  after 
him,  while  the  others  stoically  made  their  preparations  to  await  a  return 
which  they  never  expected  to  take  place.  They  watched  the  retreating 
figures  until  lost  among  the  rocks. 

In  the  language  of  the  original  narration,  the  rest  of  the  ascent  was 
effected  by  "  a  ridge  between  two  valleys  filled  with  snow,  out  of  which 
came  two  branches  of  the  Saco  River,  which  met  at  the  foot  of  the  hill 
where  was  an  Indian  town  of  two  hundred  people."  ..."  By-the-way, 
among  the  rocks,  there  were  two  ponds,  one  a  blackish  water,  and  the 
other  reddish."  ..."  Within  twelve  miles  of  the  top  was  neither  tree  nor 
grass,  but  low  savins,  which  they  went  upon  the  top  of  sometimes." 

The  adventurous  climber  pushed  on.  Soon  he  was  assailed  by  thick 
clouds,  through  which  he  and  his  companions  resolutely  toiled  upward. 
This  slow  and  labored  progress  through  entangling  mists  continued  until 
within  four  miles  of  the  summit,  when  Field  emerged  above  them  into 
a  region  of  intense  cold.  Surmounting  the  immense  pile  of  shattered 
rocks  which  constitute  the  spire,  he  at  last  stood  upon  the  unclouded 
summit,  with  its  vast  landscape  outspread  beneath  him,  and  the  air  so 
clear  that  the  sea  seemed  not  more  than  twenty  miles  distant.  No 
doubt  the  daring  explorer  experienced  all  the  triumph  natural  to  his  suc- 
cessful achievement.  It  is  not  difficult  to  imagine  the  exultation  with 
which  he  planted  his  audacious  foot  upon  the  topmost  crag,  for,  like 
Columbus,  Cabot,  Balboa,  he,  too,  was  a  real  discoverer.  The  Indians 
must  have  regarded  him,  who  thus  scornfully  braved  the  vengeance  of 
their  god  of  terrors,  as  something   more   than   man.     I  have   often  pict- 


Il8  THE    HEART    OF    THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

ured  him  standing  there,  proudly  erect,  while  the  wonder-struck  savages 
crouched  humbly  at  his  feet.  Both,  in  their  way,  felt  the  presence  of 
their  God ;  but  the  white  man  would  confront  his  as  an  equal,  while  the 
savage  adored  with  his  face  in  the  dust. 

The  three  men,  after  their  first  emotion  of  ecstasy,  amazement,  or 
fear,  looked  about  them.  For  the  moment  the  ijreat  carbuncle  was  for- 
gotten.  Field  had  chosen  the  best  month  of  the  twelve  for  his  attempt, 
and  now  saw  a  vast  and  unknown  region  stretching  away  on  the  north 
and  east  to  the  shores  of  what  he  took  for  seas,  but  what  were  really 
only  seas  of  vapor,  heaped  against  the  farthest  horizons.  He  fancied  he 
saw  a  great  water  to  the  north,  which  he  judged  to  be  a  hundred  miles 
broad,  for  no  land  was  beyond  it.  He  thought  he  descried  the  great 
Gulf  of  Canada  to  the  east,  and  in  the  west  the  great  lake  out  of  which 
the  river  of  Canada  came.  All  these  illusions  are  sufficiently  familiar  to 
mountain  explorers ;  and  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  in  Field's  day 
geographical  knowledge  of  the  interior  of  the  country  was  indeed  lim- 
ited. In  fact,  he  must  have  brought  back  with  him  the  first  accurate 
knowledge  respecting  the  sources  of  those  rivers  flowing  from  the  east- 
ern slopes  of  the  mountains.  The  great  gulf  on  the  north  side  of 
Mount  Washington  is  truly  declared  to  be  such  a  precipice  that  they 
could  scarce  discern  to  the  bottom ;  the  great  northern  wilderness  as 
"daunting  terrible,"  and  clothed  with  "infinite  thick  woods."  Such  is  its 
aspect  to-day. 

The  day  must  have  been  so  far  spent  that  Field  had  but  little  time 
in  which  to  prosecute  his  search.  He,  however,  found  "store  of  Muscovy 
glass"  and  some  crystals,  which,  supposing  them  to  be  diamonds,  he  care- 
fully secured  and  brought  away.  These  glittering  masses,  congealed,  ac- 
cording to  popular  belief,  like  ice  on  the  frozen  regions  of  the  moun- 
tains, gave  them  the  name  of  the  Crystal  Hills — a  name  the  most  poetic, 
the  most  suggestive,  and  the  most  fitting  that  has  been  applied  to  the 
highest  summits  since  the  day  they  were  first  discovered  by  Englishmen. 

Descending  the  mountain.  Field  rejoined  his  Indians,  who  were 
doubtless  much  astonished  to  see  him  return  to  them  safe  and  sound ; 
for,  while  he  had  been  making  the  ascent,  a  furious  tempest,  sent,  as 
these  savages  believed,  to  destroy  the  rash  pale -face  and  his  equally 
reckless  companions,  burst  upon  the  mountain.  He  found  them  drying 
themselves  by  a  fire  of  pine-knots ;  and,  after  a  short  halt,  the  party  took 
their  way  down  the  mountain  to  the  Indian  village. 


LEGENDS    OE    THE    CRYSTAL     HILLS.  119 

Before  a  month  elapsed,  Field,  with  five  or  six  companions,  made  a 
second  ascent ;  but  the  gem  of  inestimable  value,  by  whose  light  one 
might  read  at  night,  continued  to  elude  his  pursuit.  The  search  was 
not,  however,  abandoned.  Others  continued  it.  The  marvellous  story, 
as  firmly  believed  as  ever  by  the  credulous,  survived,  in  all  its  purity, 
to  our  own  century,  to  be  finally  transmitted  to  immortality  by  Haw- 
thorne's tale  of  "  The  Great  Carbuncle."  It  may  be  said  here  that 
great  influence  was  formerly  attributed  to  this  stone,  which  the  learned 
in  alchemy  believed  prevailed  against  the  dangers  of  infection,  and  was 
a  sure  talisman  to  preserve  its  owner  from  peril  by  sea  or  by  land. 

A  tradition  is  ten  times  a  tradition  when  it  has  a  fixed  locality. 
Without  this  it  is  a  myth,  a  mere  vagabond  of  a  tradition.  Knowing 
this,  I  searched  diligently  for  the  spot  where  the  great  carbuncle,  like  the 
eye  of  a  Cyclop,  shed  its  red  lustre  far  down  the  valley  of  the  Saco ;  and 
if  the  little  mountain  tarn  to-day  known  as  Hermit  Lake,  over  which  the 
gaunt  crags  rise  in  austere  grandeur,  be  not  the  place,  then  I  am  per- 
suaded that  further  seeking  would  be  unavailing.  I  cannot  go  so  far  as 
to  say  that  it  never  existed. 

What  seems  passing  strange  is  that  the  feat  performed  by  Field,^  the 
fame  of  which  spread  throughout  the  colony,  should  have  been  nearly,  if 
not  wholly,  forgotten  before  the  lapse  of  a  century.  Robert  Rogers,  one 
of  the  most  celebrated  hunters  of  the  White  Mountains,  subsequently  a 
renowned  partisan  leader  in  the  French  and  Indian  wars,  uses  the  fol- 
lowing language  concerning  them  : 

"  I  cannot  learn  that  any  person  was  ever  on  the  top  of  these  moun- 
tains. I  have  been  told  by  the  Indians  that  they  have  often  attempted 
it  in  vain,  by  reason  of  the  change  of  air  they  met  with,  which  I  am 
inclined  to  believe,  having  ascended  them  myself  "til  the  alteration  of  air 
was  very  perceptible ;  and  even  then  I  had  not  advanced  half  way  up ; 
the  valleys  below  were  then  concealed  from  view  by  clouds." 

It  is  not  precisely  known  when  or  how  these  granite  peaks  took  the 
name  of  the  White  Mountains.  We  find  them  so  designated  in  1672 
by  Josselyn,  who   himself  performed   the  feat  of  ascending   the   highest 

'  Field's  second  ascension  (July,  1642)  was  followed  in  the  same  year  by  that  of  Vines  and 
Gorges,  two  magistrates  of  Sir  F.  Gorges's  province  of  Maine,  within  which  the  mountains 
were  believed  to  lie.  Their  visit  contributed  little  to  the  knowledge  of  the  region,  as  they  er- 
roneously reported  the  high  plateau  of  the  great  chain  to  be  the  source  of  the  Kennebec,  as 
well  as  of  the  Androscoggin  and  Connecticut  rivers. 


I20  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

summit,  of  which  a  brief  record  is  found  in  his  "  New  England's  Rari- 
ties." One  cannot  help  saying  of  this  book  that  either  the  author  was  a 
liar  of  the  first  magnitude,  or  else  we  have  to  regret  the  degeneracy  of 
Nature,  exhausted  by  her  long  travail ;  for  this  narrator  gravely  tells  us 
of  frogs  which  were  as  big  as  a  child  of  a  year  old,  and  of  poisonous  ser- 
pents which  the  Indians  caught  with  their  bare  hands,  and  ate  alive  with 
great  gusto.     These  are  rarities  indeed. 

The  first  mention  I  have  met  with  of  an  Indian  name  for  the  White 
Mountains  is  in  the  narrative  of  John  Gyles  s  captivity,  printed  in  Bos- 
ton in  1736,  saying: 

"  These  White  Hills,  at  the  head  of  Penobscot  River,  are  by  the  In- 
dians said  to  be  much  higher  than  those  called  Agiockochook,'  above 
Saco." 

The  similitude  between  the  names  White  Mountains  and  Mont 
Blanc  suggests  the  same  idea,  that  color,  rather  than  character,  makes 
the  first  and  strongest  impression  upon  the  beholder.  Thus  we  have 
White  Mountains  and  Green  Mountains,  Red  Mountains  and  Black 
Mountains,  the  world  o\'er.  The  eye  seizes  a  color  before  the  mind  fixes 
upon  a  distinctive  feature,  or  the  imagination  a  resemblance.  It  is 
stated,  on  the  authority  of  Schoolcraft,  that  the  Algonquins  called  these 
summits  "  White  Rocks."  Mariners,  approaching  from  the  open  sea, 
descried  what  seemed  a  cloud -bank,  rising  from  the  landward  horizon, 
when  twenty  leagues  from  the  nearest  coast,  and  before  any  other  land 
was  visible  from  the  mast-head.  Thirty  leagues  distant  in  a  direct  line, 
in  a  clear  midsummer  day,  the    distant    summits    appeared  of  a  pearly 


'  It  also  occurs,  reduced  to  Agiochook.  in  the  ballad,  of  unknown  origin,  on  the  death  of 
Captain  Lovewell.  One  of  these  was,  doubtless,  the  authority  of  Belknap.  Touching  the  signifi- 
cation of  Agiochook,  it  is  the  opinion  of  Dr.  J.  Hammond  Trumbull  that  the  word  which  Cap- 
tain Gyles  imperfectly  translated  from  sound  into  English  syllables  is  Algonquin  for  "at  the 
mountains  on  that  side,"  or  "over  yonder."  "As  to  the  generally  received  interpretations  of 
Agiockochook,  such  as  'the  abode  of  the  Great  Spirit,'  'the  place  of  the  Spirit  of  the  Great 
Forest,"  or,  as  one  writer  prefers, 'the  place  of  the  Storm  Spirit,' "  says  Dr.  Trumbull,  "  it  is 
enough  to  say  that  no  element  of  any  Algonkin  word  meaning  'great,'  'spirit,'  'forest,'  'storm,' 
or  'abode,' or  cr)nibining  the  meaning  of  any  two  of  these  words,  occurs  in  'Agiockochook.' 
The  only  Indian  name  for  the  White  Hills  that  bears  internal  evidence  of  genuineness  is  one 
given  on  the  authority  of  President  Alden,  as  used  '  by  one  of  the  eastern  tribes,'  that  is. 
Waunibekketmcthna.  which  easily  resolves  itself  into  the  Kennebec  -  .Abnaki  waubcghiket- 
amadinar,  '  white  greatest  mountain.'  It  is  very  probable,  however,  that  this  synthesis  is  a 
mere  translation,  by  an  Indian,  of  the  English  '  White  Mountains.'  I  have  never,  myself,  suc- 
ceeded in  obtaining  this  name  from  the  modern  .•Vbnakis." 


LEGENDS     OF    THE    CRYSTAL     LULLS.  12 1 

whiteness ;  observed  again  from  a  church  steeple  on  the  sea-coast,  with 
the  sky  partially  overcast,  they  were  whitish -gray,  showing  that  the 
change  from  blue  to  white,  or  to  cool  tones  approximating  with  white,  is 
due  to  atmospheric  conditions.  The  earlv  writers  succeed  only  imper- 
fectly in  accounting  for  this  phenomenon,  which  for  six  months  of  the 
year  at  least  has  no  connection  whatever  with  the  snows  that  cover  the 
highest  peaks  only  from  the  middle  of  October  to  the  middle  of  April,  a 
period  during  which  few  navigators  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth 
centuries  visited  our  shores,  or,  indeed,  ventured  to  put  to  sea  at  all' 

'  Here  is  what  Douglass  says  in  his  •'Summary"  (i748-'53):  "The  Wliitc  Hills,  or  rather 
mountains,  inland  about  seventy  miles  north  from  the  mouth  of  Piscataqua  Harbor,  about 
seven  miles  west  by  north  from  the  head  of  the  Pigwoket  branch  of  Saco  River ;  they  are 
called  white  not  from  their  being  continually  covered  with  snow,  but  because  they  are  bald 
atop,  producing  no  trees  or  brush,  and  covered  with  a  whitish  stone  or  shingle  :  these  hills 
may  be  observed  at  a  great  distance,  and  are  a  considerable  guide  or  direction  to  the  In- 
dians in  travelling  that  country." 

And  Robert  Rogers  ("Account  of  America."  London,  1765)  remarks  that  the  White  Moun- 
tains were  "so  called  from  that  appearance  which  is  like  snow,  consisting,  as  is  generally  sup- 
posed, of  a  white  flint,  from  which  the  reflection  is  very  brilliant  and  dazzling." 


122  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 


II. 

JACKSON   AND    THE    ELLIS    VALLEY. 

Once  more,  O  mountains  of  the  North,  unveil 

Your  brows,  and  lay  your  cloudy  mantles  by! — Whittikr. 

IT  is  Petrarch  who  says,  " A  journey  on  foot  hath  most  pleasant  com- 
modities ;  a  man  may  go  at  his  pleasure ;  none  shall  stay  him,  none 
shall  carry  him  beyond  his  wish,  none  shall  trouble  him ;  he  hath  but 
one  labor,  the  labor  of  nature,  to  go."  Every  true  pedestrian  ought  to 
render  full  faith  to  the  poet's  assertion  ;  and  should  he  chance  to  have 
his  Laura,  he  will  see  her  somewhere,  or,  rather,  everywhere,  I  promise 
him.     But  that  is  his  affair. 

There  are  two  ways  of  reaching  Jackson  from  North  Conway.  One 
route  leaves  the  travelled  highway  a  short  distance  beyond  the  East 
Branch  of  the  Saco,  and  ascends  Thorn  Hill;  another  diverges  from  it 
near  Glen  Station,  in  Bartlett.  The  Thorn  Hill  way  is  the  longer;  but, 
as  the  views  are  unsurpassed,  I  unhesitatingly  chose  it  in  preference  to 
the  easier  and  shorter  road. 

The  walk  from  the  Intervale  over  Thorn  Hill  gives  ravishing  back- 
ward glimpses,  opening  to  a  full  and  broad  panorama  of  the  Saco  mead- 
ows and  of  the  surrounding  mountains.  Needless  to  call  them  by  name. 
One  might  forget  names,  but  the  image  never.  Then,  advancinii  to  the 
summit,  full  upon  the  charmed  eye  comes  that  glorious  vision  of  the 
great  mountains,  elevated  to  an  immense  height,  and  seeming,  in  their 
benevolence,  to  say,  "Approach,  mortals!"     Underneath  is  the  village. 

We  have  left  the  grand  vestibule  of  the  Saco  to  enter  an  amphithe- 
atre. Washington,  in  his  snowy  toga,  occupies  the  place  of  high  honor. 
Adams  flaunts  his  dainty  spire  over  the  Pinkham  Notch,  at  tlie  mon- 
arch's left  hand.  Then  comes  an  embattled  wall,  pierced  through  its 
centre  bv  the  immense  hollow  of  the  Carter  Notch. 


JACKSON   AND     THE     ELLIS     VALLEY  123 

Jackson  is  the  ideal  mountain  village.  From  Thorn  Hill  it  looked  a 
little  elysium,  with  its  handful  of  white  houses  huddled  around  its  one 
little  church  spire,  like  a  congregation  sitting  at  the  feet  of  their  pastor. 
You  perceive  neither  entrance  nor  exit,  so  completely  is  the  deep  vale 
shut  in  by  mountains.  The  streams,  that  make  two  veins  of  silver  in 
the  green  floor,  seem  vainly  seeking  a  way  out.  One  would  think  Nature 
had  locked  the  door  and  thrown  away  the  key.  The  first  stream  is  the 
Wildcat,  coming  from  the  Carter  Notch ;  the  second,  the  Ellis,  from  the 
Pinkham  Notch.  They  unite  just  below  the  village,  and,  like  a  forlorn- 
hope,  together  cut  their  way  out  of  the  mountains. 

Getting  down  into  the  village,  the  high  mountains  now  sink  out  of 
sight,  and  I  saw  only  the  nearer  and  less  elevated  ones  immediately  sur- 
rounding—  on  the  north,  Eagle  and  Wildcat;  on  the  east.  Tin  and 
Thorn ;  on  the  west,  Iron  Mountain.  The  latter  has  fine,  bold  cliffs. 
Over  its  smooth  slope  I  again  saw  the  two  great  steps  of  the  Giants 
Stairs,  mounting  the  long  ridge  which  conducts  to  the  great  plateau  of 
Mount  Washington. 

The  village  has  a  bright,  pleasant  look,  but  is  not  otherwise  remark- 
able in  itself.  Three  hotels,  the  church,  and  a  score  or  so  of  houses,  con- 
stitute the  central  portion.  But  if  the  village  is  small,  the  township  is 
large ;  and  what  is  the  visitor's  astonishment,  on  opening  his  eyes  some 
fine  morning,  to  see  farms  and  farm-houses  scattered  along  the  very  sum- 
mit of  Thorn  Mountain,  whence  they  appear  to  regard  the  little  world 
below  with  a  lofty  disdain.  How  came  they  there .''  is  the  question  one 
feels  inclined  to  ask;  for  in  this  enchanted  air  he  loses  the  desire,  almost 
the  faculty,  of  thinking  for  himself.  The  inhabitants  of  this  little  colony 
seem  to  prize  their  seclusion,  and  only  descend  to  earth  at  the  call  of 
necessity.  Their  neighbors  are  the  eagles.  Surely  this  is  UltiDia  Thulc. 
Alas  !  no ;  the  tax-gatherer  mounts  even  here. 

The  people  of  Jackson  are  above  all  anxious  for  the  development  of 
the  mineral  resources  of  the  place.  They  have  iron  and  tin,  and  claim 
also  the  existence  of  copper  and  even  of  gold  ores.  Yet  it  is  probable 
that  the  vein  most  profitable  for  them,  the  one  most  likely  to  yield  satis- 
factory returns,  is  that  on  which  the  summer  hotels  have  been  located 
and  opened.  So  far,  the  mountains  refuse  to  give  up  the  wealth  they 
hoard. 

The  Wildcat  cuts  the  village  in  two.  It  is  a  perfect  highwayman  of 
a  stream.     The  very  air  is  tremulous  with  its  rush  and  roar.     I  halted 


124  "^^^     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 


GIANT  S   STAIRS,  FROM   THORN    MOl'NTAIN. 


awhile  on  tlie  little  bridge  that  spans  it,  from  which, 
looking  down  the  long  pathway  it  makes,  I  enjoyed  a  fine  retrospect 
of  the  Moats,  and,  looking  up,  saw  the  torrent  come  bounding  toward 
me.  Here  it  makes  a  swift  descent  over  granite  ledges,  clean  and  fresh 
from  constant  scrubbing,  as  the  face  of  a  country  urchin,  and  as  freckled. 
See  how  hard  every  rod  of  its  course  is  beset  by  huge  hump -backed 
bowlders  !     A  river  in  fetters  ! 

Just  above  the  bridge  the  stream  plunges,  two  white  streaks  of  water, 
twenty  to  thirty  feet  obliquely  down.  Now  it  is  dark,  now  light ;  some- 
times tinged  a  pale  emerald,  sometimes  a  rich  amber,  where  it  falls  down 
in  thin  sheets.  For  half  a  mile  the  ledges  look  as  if  an  earthquake  had 
ripped  them  up  to  make  a  channel  for  this  tempest  of  water.  It  is  from 
these  ledees,  lookinsf  down  the  course  of  the  stream,  that  Moat  Moun- 
tain  is  so  incomparably  fine.  It  stretches  itself  luxuriously  along  the 
rich  meadows,  like  a  Sybarite  upon  his  couch  of  velvet,  lifting  its  head 
high  enough  to  embrace  the  landscape,  of  which  itself  is  the  most  attrac- 
tive feature.  And  the  tall  pines  rise  above  the  framework  of  forest,  as  if 
to  look  at  the  beautiful  mountain,  clothed  with  the  light  of  the  morning, 
and  reclining  with  such  infinite  grace. 

Sprays  of  trembling  foliage  droop  or  stretch  themselves  out  over  the 
stream  in  search  of  the  fine  dew  it  sends  up.  They  seem  endeavoring 
to  hide  the  broad  scar  niade  through  the  forest.     The  clear  sun  illumi- 


JACKSON   AND     THE     ELLIS     VALLEY.  125 

nates  their  green  leaves,  and  makes  the  cool  rocks  emit  a  sensible 
warmth.  It  also  illuminates  the  little  fountains  of  water.  Ferns  and 
young  willows  shoot  from  crevices,  delicate  mosses  attach  themselves  to 
the  grim  bowlders.  I  found  the  perfect  print  of  a  human  foot  sunk  in 
the  hardest  rock ;  also  cavities  as  cleverly  rounded  as  if  pebbles  had 
been  taken  from  the  granite.  On  the  banks,  under  the  thick  shade  of 
the  pines,  I  gathered  a  handful  of  the  showy  pappoose  flower,  the  green 
leaves  of  which  are  edible.  Little  mauve  butterflies  fluttered  at  our 
knees  like  violets  blown  about  by  the  wind. 

The  crest  of  the  fall  is  split,  and  broken  up  in  huge  fragments.  The 
main  stream  gains  an  outlet  by  a  deep  channel  it  has  cut  in  the  rock ; 
then  turns  a  mill ;  then  shoots  down  the  face  of  the  ledge.  Above  the 
high  ledge  the  bed  of  the  river  widens  to  about  two  hundred  feet. 
Higher  up,  where  it  is  broken  in  long  regular  steps  over  which  fifty 
cascades  tumble,  I  thought  it  most  beautiful. 

Besides  Jackson  Falls,  so  called,  there  is  a  fine  cataract  on  the  Ellis, 
known  as  Goodrich  Falls.  This  is  a  mile  and  a  half  out  of  the  village, 
where  the  Conway  road  passes  the  Ellis  by  a  bridge ;  and,  being  directly 
upon  the  high-road,  is  one  of  the  best  known.  The  river  here  sud- 
denly pours  its  whole  volume  over  a  precipice  eighty  feet  high,  mak- 
ing the  earth  tremble  with  the  shock.  I  made  my  way  down  the  steep 
bank  to  the  bed  of  the  river  below  the  fall,  from  which  I  saw,  first,  the 
curling  wave,  large,  regular,  and  glassy,  of  the  dam,  then  three  wild  and 
foaming  pitches  of  broken  water,  with  detached  cascades  gushing  out 
from  the  rocks  at  the  right- — all  falling  heavily  into  the  eddying  pool 
below.  Where  the  water  was  not  white,  or  filliped  into  fine  spray,  it  was 
the  color  of  pale  sherry,  and  opaque,  gradually  changing  to  amber  gold 
as  the  light  penetrated  it  and  the  descending  sheet  of  the  fall  grew  thin- 
ner. The  full  tide  of  the  river  showed  the  fall  to  the  best  possible  ad- 
vantage. But  spring  is  the  season  of  cascades — the  only  season  when 
one  is  sure  of  seeing  them  at  all. 

One  gets  strongly  attached  to  such  a  stream  as  the  Ellis.  If  it  has 
been  his  only  comrade  for  weeks,  as  it  has  been  mine,  the  liking  grows 
stronger  every  day  —  the  sense  of  companionship  is  full  and  complete: 
the  river  is  so  voluble,  so  vivacious,  so  full  of  noisy  chatter.  If  you  are 
dull,  it  rouses  and  lifts  you  out  of  yourself ;  if  gay,  it  is  as  gay  as  you. 
Besides,  there  is  the  paradox  that,  notwithstanding  you  may  be  going 
in  different  directions,  it   never  leaves   you  for  a  single    moment.     One 


126 


THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUXTAINS. 


r*.*5Si^^: 


MOAT   MOUNTAIN,  FROM   JACKSON    FALLS. 


talks  as  it  runs,  one  listens  as  he  walks.     A  secret,  an  indefinaljlc  sym- 
pathy springs  up.     You  are  no  longer  alone. 

Among  other  stories  that  the  river  told  me  was  the  following : 
Once,  while  on  their  way  to  Canada  through  these  mountains,  a  war- 
party  of  Indians,  fresh  from  a  successful  forray  on  the  sea-coast,  halted 
witli  their  prisoners  on  the  banks  of  a  stream  whose  waters  stopped 
their  way.  For  weeks  tliese  miserable  captives  had  toiled  through  track- 
less   forests,  through    swollen    and    angry    torrents,  sometimes    climbing 


/.-/  CA'S  O  N   A  ND     THE     ELL  IS     VA  LLEV.  127 

mountains  on  their  hands  and  knees — they  were  so  steep — and  at  night 
stretching  their  aching  limbs  on  the  cold  ground,  with  no  other  roof  than 
the  heavens/ 

The  captives  were  a  mother,  with  her  new-born  babe,  scarcely  four- 
teen days  old,  her  boy  of  six,  her  two  daughters  of  fourteen  and  sixteen 
years,  and  her  maid.  Two  of  her  little  flock  were  missing.  One  little 
prattler  was  playing  at  her  knee,  and  another  in  the  orchard,  when  thir- 
teen red  devils  burst  in  the  door  of  their  happy  home.  Two  cruel 
strokes  of  the  axe  stretched  them  lifeless  in  their  blood  before  her  fren- 
zied eyes.  One  was  killed  to  intimidate,  the  other  was  despatched  be- 
cause he  was  afraid,  and  cried  out  to  his  mother.  There  was  no  time 
for  tears — none  even  for  a  parting  kiss.  Think  of  that,  mothers  of  the 
nineteenth  century !  The  tragedy  finished,  the  hapless  survivors  were 
hurried  from  the  house  into  the  woods.  There  was  no  resistance.  The 
blow  fell  like  a  stroke  of  lightning  from  a  clear  sky. 

This  mother,  whose  eyes  never  left  the  embroidered  belt  of  the  chief, 
where  the  reeking  scalps  of  her  murdered  babes  hung ;  this  mother,  who 
had  tasted  the  agony  of  death  from  hour  to  hour,  and  whose  incompa- 
rable courage  not  only  supported  her  own  weak  frame,  but  had  so  far 
miraculously  preserved  the  lives  of  her  little  ones,  now  stood  shivering 
on  the  shores  of  the  swollen  torrent  with  her  babe  in  her  arms,  and  hold- 
ing her  little  boy  by  the  hand.  In  rags,  bleeding,  and  almost  famished, 
her  misery  should  have  melted  a  heart  of  stone.  But  she  well  knew  the 
mercy  of  her  masters.  When  fainting,  they  had  goaded  her  on  with 
blows,  or,  making  a  gesture  as  if  to  snatch  her  little  one  from  her  arms, 
significantly  grasped  their  tomahawks.  Hope  was  gone ;  but  the  moth- 
er's instinct  was  not  vet  extinguished  in  that  heroic  bi'east. 

But  at  this  moment  of  sorrow  and  despair,  what  was  her  amazement 
to  hear  the  Indians  accost  her  daughter  Sarah,  and  command  her  to 
sing  them  a  song.  What  mysterious  chord  had  the  wild,  flowing  river 
touched  in  those  savage  breasts }  The  girl  prepared  to  obey,  and  the 
Indians  to  listen.  In  the  heart  of  these  vast  solitudes,  which  never 
before  echoed  to  a  human  voice,  the  heroic  English  maiden  chanted  to 
the  plaintive  refrain  of  the  river  the  sublime  words  of  the  Psalmist : 

"  By  the  rivers  of  Babylon,  there  we  sat  down,  yea,  we  wept,  when  we 
remembered  Zion. 

'  Captivity  of  Elizabeth  Hanson,  taken  at  Dover,  New  Hampshire,  1724. 


128  2  HE     HEART    OE    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

"  We  hanged  our  harps  upon  the  willows  in  the  midst  thereof. 

"  For  there  they  that  carried  us  away  captive  required  of  us  a  song; 
and  they  that  wasted  us  required  of  us  mirth." 

As  she  sung,  the  poor  girl's  voice  trembled  and  her  eyes  filled,  but 
she  never  once  looked  toward  her  mother. 

When  the  last  notes  of  the  singers  voice  died  away,  the  bloodiest 
devil,  he  who  murdered  the  children,  took  the  babe  gently  from  the 
mother,  without  a  word;  another  lifted  her  burden  to  his  own  shoulder; 
another,  the  little  boy;  when  the  whole  company  entered  the  river. 

Gentlemen,  metaphysicians,  explain  that  scene,  if  you  please :  it  is  no 
romance. 

As  this  tale  plunged  me  in  a  train  of  sombre  reflection,  the  river  re- 
counted one  of  those  marvellous  legends  which  contain  more  poetry 
than  superstition,  and  which  here  seem  so  appropriate. 

According  to  the  legend,  a  family  living  at  the  foot  of  a  lofty  peak 
had  a  daughter  more  beautiful  than  any  maiden  of  the  tribe,  possessing 
a  mind  elevated  far  above  the  common  order,  and  as  accomplished  as 
beautiful.  When  she  reached  a  proper  age,  her  parents  looked  around 
them  for  a  suitable  match,  but  in  vain.  None  of  the  young  men  of  the 
tribe  were  worthy  of  so  peerless  a  creature.  Suddenly  this  lovely  wild- 
flower  of  the  mountains  disappeared.  Diligent  was  the  search,  and  loud 
the  lamentations  when  no  trace  of  her  light  moccasin  could  be  found  in 
forest  or  glade.  The  tribe  mourned  her  as  lost.  But  one  day  some  hunt- 
ers, who  had  penetrated  into  the  fastnesses  of  the  mountain,  discovered 
the  lost  maiden  disporting  herself  in  the  limpid  waters  of  a  stream  with 
a  beautiful  youth,  whose  hair,  like  her  own,  flowed  dowoi  below  his  waist. 
On  the  approach  of  the  intruders,  the  youthful  bathers  vanished  from 
sight.  The  relatives  of  the  maiden  recognized  her  companion  as  one  of 
the  kind  spirits  of  the  mountain,  and  henceforth  looked  upon  him  as 
their  son.  They  called  upon  him  for  moose,  bear,  or  whatever  creature 
they  desired,  and  had  only  to  go  to  the  water-side  and  signify  their  de- 
sire, when,  behold !  the  animal  came  swimming  toward  them.  This 
legend  strongly  reminded  me  of  one  of  those  marvellous  fables  of  the 
Hartz,  in  which  a  princess  of  exceeding  beauty,  destroyed  by  the  arts  of 
a  wicked  fairy,  was  often  seen  bathing  in  the  river  Use.  If  she  met  a 
traveller,  she  conducted  him  into  the  interior  of  the  mountain  and  loaded 
him  with  riches.  Each  legend  dimly  conveys  its  idea  of  the  wealth  be- 
lieved to  reside  in  the  mountain  itself. 


JACKSON   AND     THE     ELLIS     VALLEY.  129 

The  Ellis  continues  to  guide  us  farther  and  farther  into  the  moun- 
tains. If  we  turn  in  the  direction  of  the  Glen  House,  a  mile  out  of  the 
village  the  Giant's  Stairs  come  finely  into  view,  and  are  held  for  some 
distance.  Then  bewitching  vistas  of  Mount  Washington,  with  snow 
decorating  his  huge  sides,  rise  and  sink,  appear  and  disappear,  until  we 
reach  an  open  vale,  where  the  stream  is  spanned  by  a  rude  bridge.  The 
route  offers  nothing  more  striking  in  its  way  than  the  view  of  the  Pink- 
ham  Notch,  which  lies  open  at  this  point. 

One  of  my  walks  extending  as  far  as  the  last  house  on  this  road,  per- 
mitted me  to  gratify  a  strong  desire  to  see  something  of  the  in-door  life 
of  the  poorer  class  of  farmers.  That  desire  was  fully  satisfied.  There 
was  nothing  remarkable  about  the  house  itself;  but  the  room  in  which  I 
rested  would  have  furnished  Meyer  von  Bremen  a  capital  subject  for  one 
of  his  characteristic  interiors — it  carried  me  back  a  century  at  least.  In 
one  corner  a  woman  upward  of  seventy,  I  should  say,  sat  at  a  spinning- 
wheel.  She  rose,  got  my  bread-and-milk,  and  then  resumed  her  spinning. 
A  young  mother,  with  a  babe  in  her  lap  and  two  tow-headed  urchins  at 
her  knee,  occupied  a  high-backed  rocking-chair.  To  judge  from  appear- 
ances, the  river  which  flowed  by  the  door  .was  completely  forgotten. 
Her  efforts  to  hush  the  babe  being  interrupted  by  the  peevish  whining 
of  one  of  the  brats,  she  dealt  him  a  sound  box  on  the  ear,  upon  which 
the  whole  pack  howled  in  unison,  while  the  mother,  very  red  with  the 
effect  of  her  own  anger,  dragged  the  culprit  from  the  room.  There  was 
still  another  occupant,  a  young  girl,  so  silently  plying  her  needle  that  I 
did  not  at  first  notice  her.  The  floor  was  bare.  A  rickety  chair  or 
two  and  a  cradle  finished  the  meagre  inventory  of  the  apartment.  The 
general  appearance  of  things  was  untidy  and  unthrifty,  rather  than 
squalid  ;  but  I  could  not  help  recalling  Sir  William  Davenant's  remark, 
"  that  those  tenants  never  get  much  furniture  who  begin  with  a  cradle." 

In  such  rambles,  romantic  and  picturesque,  in  such  dreams,  the  time 
runs  away.  The  weeks  are  long  days,  the  days  moments.  Every  one 
asks  himself  why  he  finds  Jackson  so  enticing,  but  no  one  is  able  to 
answer  the  question.  Cui  bono?  When  I  am  happy,  shall  I  make 
myself  miserable  searching  for  the  reason }     Not  if  I  know  it. 

Like  bees  to  the  sweetest  flowers,  the  artists  alight  on  the  choicest 
bits  of  scenery  by  instinct.  One  runs  across  their  umbrellas  almost 
everywhere,  spread  like  gigantic  mushrooms ;  but  some  of  them  seem 
only  to  live  and  have  their  true  artistic  being  here.     In  general,  they  are 

10 


I30  THE     HEART    OE    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

gentle,  unobtrusive,  and  ratlier  subdued  in  the  presence  of  their  beloved 
mountains.  Some  among  them,  however,  develop  actual  rapacity  in 
the  search  for  new  subjects,  as,  with  a  pencil  between  their  teeth,  they 
creep  in  ambush  to  surprise  and  carry  off  some  mountain  beauty  which 
you  or  I  are  to  ransom.  Does  a  traveller  contemplate  some  arduous 
exploration  in  an  unvisited  region  ?  the  artist  knocks  him  over  by 
quietly  remarking,  "  I  camped  there  several  days  last  year." 

In  France  they  maintain  that  high  mountains  cannot  be  painted. 
Consecjuently,  the  modern  French  landscape  is  almost  always  a  dead 
level ;  an  illimitable  plain,  through  which  a  placid  stream  quietly  mean- 
ders, with  a  thick  wood  of  aged  trees  at  the  left,  a  snug  hamlet  in  the 
middle  distance,  some  shrubbery  on  the  right,  and  a  clumsy  ox-cart  with 
peasants,  in  the  foreground.  All  these  details  are  sufificiently  common- 
place ;  but  they  appeal  strongly  to  our  human  yearning  for  a  life  of  per- 
fect peace — a  sanctuary  the  world  cannot  enter.  Turner  knew  that  he 
must  paint  a  mountain  with  its  head  in  the  clouds,  and  its  feet  plunged 
in  unfathomable  abysses.  Imagination  would  do  the  rest,  and  imagina- 
tion ofoverns  the  universe. 

Photography  cannot  reproduce  the  true  relation  of  distant  mountains 
to  the  landscape.  The  highest  summits  look  like  hills.  For  want  of 
color,  too,  it  is  always  twilight.  Even  running  water  has  a  frozen  look, 
and  rocks  emit  a  dead,  sepulchral  glare.  But  for  details — every  leaf  of 
the  tree,  or  shadow  of  the  leaf  —  it  is  faultless;  it  is  the  thing  itself. 
True,  under  the  magnifying-glass  the  foliage  looks  crisped,  as  is  noticed 
after  a  first  frost.  In  short,  the  photograph  of  mountain  scenery  is  like 
that  of  a  friend  taken  in  his  coffin.  We  say  with  a  shiver  that  is  he,  but, 
alas,  how  changed !  A  body  without  a  soul.  Again,  photography  can- 
not suggest  movement.  Perfect  immobility  is  a  condition  indispensable 
to  a  successful  picture.     A  successful  picture !     A  petrified  landscape ! 

"  In  the  morning  to  the  mountain,"  says  the  proverb,  as  emblematic 
of  high  hopes.  For  two  stations  embodying  the  best  features  the  vicin- 
ity of  Jackson  can  offer,  the  crest  of  Thorn  Mountain  and  the  ledges 
above  Fernald's  Farm  are  strongly  commended  to  every  sojourner. 
Both  are  easily  reached.  On  the  first,  you  are  a  child  lifted  above  the 
crowd  on  the  shoulders  of  a  oriant ;  the  mountains  have  come  to  vou. 
On  the  second,  you  have  taken  the  best  possible  position  to  study  the 
form  and  structure  of  Mount  Washington.  You  see  all  the  ravines,  and 
can  count  all  the  gigantic  feelers  the  immense   mountain   throws   down 


JACKSON   AND    THE     ELLIS     VALLEY.  131 

into  the  gorge  of  the  Ellis.  In  this  way,  step  by  step,  we  continue  to 
master  the  topography  of  the  region  visited  as  we  take  our  chocolate, 
one  sip  at  a  time. 

I  prepared  to  continue  my  journey  to  the  Glen  House  by  the  valley 
of  the  Wildcat  and  the  Carter  Notch,  which  is  a  sort  of  side  entrance  to 
the  Peabody  Valley.  Two  passes  thus  lie  on  alternate  sides  of  the  same 
mountain  chain.     Before  doing  so,  however,  two  words  are  necessary. 


132  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 


III. 

THE     CARTER    NOTCH. 

Stranger,  if  thou  hast  learned  a  truth  which  needs 
No  school  of  long  experience,  that  the  world 
Is  full  of  guilt  and  misery,  and  hast  seen 
Enough  of  all  its  sorrows,  crimes,  and  cares, 
To  tire  thee  of  it,  enter  this  wild  wood 
And  view  the  haunts  of  nature. — Bryant. 

WHAT  traveller  can  pass  beyond  tlie  crest  of  Thorn  Hill  without 
paying  his  tribute  of  silent  admiration  to  the  splendid  pageant  of 
mountains  visible  from  this  charmed  spot !  Before  him  the  great  ram- 
part, bristling  with  its  countless  towers,  is  breached  as  cleanly  as  if  a  can- 
non-ball had  just  crashed  through  it.  It  is  an  immense  hole;  it  is 
the  cavity  from  which,  apparently,  one  of  those  great  iron  teeth  has  just 
been  extracted.  Only  it  does  not  disfigure  the  landscape.  Far  from 
it.  It  really  exalts  the  surrounding  peaks.  They  are  enormously  ag- 
grandized by  it.  You  look  around  for  a  mountain  of  proper  size  and 
shape  to  fill  it.     That  gives  the  true  idea.     It  is  a  mountainous  hole. 

The  little  river,  tumbling  step  by  step  down  its  broken  ledges  into 
Jackson,  comes  direct  from  the  Notch,  and  its  stream  is  the  thread 
which  conducts  through  the  labyrinth  of  thick  woods.  I  dearly  love 
the  companionship  of  these  mountain  streams.  They  are  the  voices  of 
the  wilderness,  singing  high  or  low,  softly  humming  a  melodious  refrain 
to  your  thoughts,  or,  joining  innumerable  cascades  in  one  grand  chorus, 
they  salute  the  ear  with  a  gush  of  sound  that  strips  the  forest  of  its 
loneliness  and  awe.  This  same  madcap  Wildcat  runs  shouting  and  hal- 
looing through  the  woods  like  a  stream  possessed. 

By  half-past  seven  of  a  bright  and  crisp  morning  I  was  climbing  the 
steep  hill-side  over  which  Jackson  Falls  pour  down.  Here  was  a  gen- 
uine surprise.     On  arriving  at  the  top,  instead  of  entering  a  difficult  and 


THE     CARTER     NOTCH.  133 

confined  gorge,  I  found  a  charming  and  tolerably  wide  vale,  dotted  with 
farms,  extending  far  up  into  the  midst  of  the  mountains.  You  hardly 
realize  that  the  stream  flowing  so  demurely  along  the  bottom  of  the 
valley  is  the  same  making  its  entry  into  the  village  witJT  such  noise  and 
tumult.  Half  a  mile  above  the  falls  the  snowy  cupola  of  Washington 
showed  itself  over  Eagle  Mountain  for  a  few  moments.  Then,  farther 
on,  Adams  was  seen,  also  white  with  snow.  For  five  miles  the  road 
skirts  the  western  slopes  of  the  valley,  which  grows  continually  deeper, 
narrower,  and  higher.  Spruce  Mountain  is  now  on  our  left,  the  broad 
flanks  of  Black  Mountain  occupy  the  right  side  of  the  valley.  Beyond 
Black  Mountain  Carter  Dome  lifts  its  jjonderous  mass,  and  between 
them  the  dip  of  the  Perkins  Notch,  dividing  the  two  ranges,  gives  ad- 
mittance to  the  Wild  River  Valley,  and  to  the  Androscoggin,  in  Shel- 
burne.  Before  me  the  grand,  downward  curves  of  Carter  Notch  opened 
wider  and  wider. 

I  picked  up,  en  route,  the  guide  of  this  locality,  who  lives  on  the  side 
of  the  mountain  near  where  the  road  is  left  for  the  woods.  Our  busi- 
ness was  transacted  in  two  words.  While  he  was  strapping  on  his 
knapsack  I  had  leisure  to  observe  the  manner  of  man  he  was. 

The  guide,  whose  Christian  name  is  Jonathan,  is  known  in  all  the 
country  round  as  "Jock"  Davis.  He  was  a  medium-sized,  muscular 
man,  whiskered  to  his  eyes,  with  a  pair  of  bare  arms  the  color  of  un- 
glazed  earthen -ware,  and  a  step  like  a  panther.  As  he  strode  silently 
on  before,  with  his  dog  at  his  heels,  I  was  reminded  of  the  Jibenainosay 
and  his  inseparable  Little  Peter.  He  was  steady  as  a  clock,  careful,  and 
a  capital  forester,  but  a  trifle  taciturn.  From  time  to  time,  as  he  drew 
my  attention  to  the  things  noticeable  or  interesting  by  the  way,  his  face 
grew  animated,  and  his  eyes  sparkled.  By  the  same  token  I  believed  I 
detected  that  dormant  perception  of  beauty  and  grandeur  which  is  in- 
born, and  which  travellers  are  in  general  too  much  disposed  to  deny 
any  existence  among  the  natives  of  these  mountains.  It  is  true,  one 
cannot  express  his  feelings  with  the  vivacity  of  the  other;  but  if  there 
is  such  a  thing  as  speech  in  silence,  the  honest  guide's  looks  spoke 
volumes. 

He  told  me  that  he  was  accustomed  to  get  his  own  living  in  the 
woods,  like  an  old  bear.  He  had  trapped  and  gummed  all  through  the 
region  we  were  in ;  the  slopes  of  the  great  range,  and  the  Wild  River 
wilderness,  which  he  declared,  with  a  shake  of  the  head,  to  be  "  a  horrid 


134  ^'^^     HEAMT    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 


im;    CARTER    .N(J1L11. 


hole."  Now  and 
then,  without  halt- 
ing, he  took  a  step  to  the  right 
or  left  to  look  into  his  fox  and 
sable  traps,  set  near  the  foot- 
path. When  he  spoke  of  "  gumming "  on  Wildcat  Mountain,  I  was 
near  making  an  awkward  mistake;  I  understood  him  to  say  "gunning." 
So  I  very  innocently  asked  what  he  had  bagged.  He  opened  his  eyes 
widely  and  replied,  "  Gum."' 


'  No  Yankee  girl  need  be  told  for  what  purpose  spruce  "uni  is  procured  :  but  it  will  doubt- 
less be  news  to  many  that  the  best  quality  is  worth  a  dollar  the  pound.  Davis  told  me  he  had 
gathered  enough  in  a  single  season  to  fetch  ninety  dollars. 


THE     CARTER     NOTCH.  1 35 

SeeiniT  me  ready,  Davis  whistled  to  his  dos;,  and  we  entered  tlie  lo<r- 
ging-road  in  Indian  file.  We  at  once  took  a  brisk  pace,  which  in  a  short 
time  brought  us  to  the  edge  of  a  clearing,  now  badly  overgrown  with 
bramble  and  coppice,  and  showing  how  easily  nature  obliterates  the 
mark  of  civilization  when  left  alone.  In  this  clearing  an  old  cellar  told 
its  sad  story  but  too  plainh'.  Those  pioneers  who  first  struck  the  axe 
into  the  noble  pines  here  are  all  gone.  They  abandoned  in  consterna- 
tion the  effort  to  wring  a  scanty  subsistence  from  this  inhospitable  and 
unfruitful  region.  Even  the  poor  farms  I  had  seen  encroaching  upon 
the  skirts  of  this  wilderness  seemed  fighting  in  retreat. 

We  quickly  came  to  a  second  opening,  where  the  axe  of  God  had 
smote  the  forest  still  more  ruthlessly  than  that  of  man.  The  ground 
was  encumbered  with  half-burnt  trees,  among  which  the  gaudy  fire-weed 
grew  rank  and  tall.  Divining  my  thought,  the  guide  explained  in  his 
quaint,  sententious  way,  "  Fire  went  through  it ;  then  the  wind  harri- 
caned  it  down."  A  comprehensive  sweep  of  his  staff  indicated  the  area 
traversed  by  the  whirlwind  of  fire  and  the  tornado.  This  opening  dis- 
closed at  our  left  the  gray  cliffs  and  yawning  aperture  of  the  Notch — by 
far  the  most  satisfactory  view  yet  obtained,  and  the  nearest. 

Burying  ourselves  in  deeper  solitudes,  broken  only  by  the  hound  in 
full  cry  after  a  fox  or  a  rabbit,  we  descended  to  the  banks  of  the  Wild- 
cat at  a  point  one  and  a  half  miles  from  the  road  we  had  left.  W^e  then 
crossed  the  rude  bridge  of  logs,  keeping  company  with  the  gradually 
diminishing  river,  now  upon  one  bank,  now  on  the  other,  making  a 
gradual  ascent  along  with  it,  frequently  pausing  in  mid-stream  to  glance 
up  and  down  through  the  beautiful  vistas  it  has  cut  through  the  trees. 
Halt  at  the  third  crossing,  traveller,  and  take  in  the  long  course  through 
the  avenue  of  black,  moss -draped  firs!  one  so  sombre  and  austere,  the 
other  gliding  so  bright  and  blithesome  out  of  its  shadow  and  gloom. 
Just  above  this  spot  a  succession  of  tiny  water-falls  comes  like  a  proces- 
sion of  nymphs  out  of  an  enchanted  wood. 

We  were  now  in  a  colder  region.  The  sparseness  of  the  timber  led 
me  to  look  right  and  left  for  the  stumps  of  felled  trees,  but  I  saw  noth- 
ing of  the  kind.  To  the  rigorous  climate  and  extreme  leanness  of  the 
soil  they  attribute  the  scanty,  undersized  growth.  I  did  not  see  fifty 
good  timber  trees  along  the  whole  route.  Where  a  large  tree  had  been 
prostrated  by  the  wind,  its  upturned  and  matted  roots  showed  a  pitiful 
quantity  of  earth   adhering.      Finding  it  impossible   to  grow  downward 


136  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

more  than  a  few  poor  inches,  they  spread  themselves  laterally  out  to  a 
great  distance.  But  the  fir,  with  its  flame-shaped  point,  is  a  symbol  of 
indomitable  pluck.  You  see  it  standing  erect  on  the  top  of  some  huge 
bowlder,  which  its  strong,  thick  roots  clutch  like  a  vultures  talons.  How 
came  it  there  .^  Look  at  those  rotting  trunks,  so  beautifully  covered 
w  ith  the  lycopodium  and  partridge-plum  !  The  seed  of  a  fir  has  taken 
root  in  the  bark.  A  tiny  tree  is  already  springing  from  the  rich  mould. 
As  it  grows,  its  roots  grasp  whatever  offers  a  support ;  and  if  the  decay- 
ing tree  has  fallen  across  a  bowlder,  they  strike  downward  into  the  soil 
beneath  it,  and  the  rock  is  a  prisoner  during  the  lifetime  of  the  tree. 
Its  resin  protects  it  from  the  icy  blasts  of  winter,  and  from  the  alternate 
freezing  and  thawing  of  early  spring.  It  is  emphatically  the  tree  of  the 
mountains. 

An  hour  and  a  half  of  pretty  rapid  walking  brought  us  to  the  bottom 
of  a  steep  rise.  We  were  at  length  come  to  close  quarters  with  the  for- 
midable outworks  of  Wildcat  Mountain.  The  brook  has  for  some  dis- 
tance poured  a  stream  of  the  purest  water  o\-er  moss  of  the  richest  green, 
but  now  it  most  mysteriously  vanishes  from  sight.  From  this  point  the 
singular  rock  called  the  Pulpit  is  seen  overhanging  the  upper  crags  of 
the  Dome.' 

We  drank  a  cup  of  delicious  water  from  a  spring  b\-  the  side  of  the 
path,  and,  finding  direct  access  forbidden  by  the  towering  and  misshapen 
mass  before  us,  turned  sharply  to  the  left,  and  attacked  the  side  of  Wild- 
cat Mountain.  We  had  now  attained  an  altitude  of  nearly  three  thou- 
sand feet  above  the  sea,  or  two  thousand  two  hundred  and  fifty  above 
the  village  of  Jackson ;  we  were  more  than  a  thousand  higher  than  the 
renowned  Crawford  Notch. 

On  every  side  the  ground  was  loaded  down  with  huge  gray  bowlders, 
so  ponderous  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  solid  earth  must  give  way  under 
them.  Some  looked  as  if  the  merest  touch  would  send  them  crashing 
down  the  mountain.  Undermined  by  the  slow  action  of  time,  these  frag- 
ments have  fallen  one  by  one  from  the  high  cliffs,  and  accumulated  at 
the  base.  Among  these  the  path  serpentined  for  half  a  mile  more,  bring- 
ing us  at  last  to  the  summit  of  the  spur  we  had  been  climbing,  and  to 
the    broad   entrance   of   the    Notch.     We    passed   quickly   over   the   level 


'   I  use  the  name,  as  usually  applied,  to  tlie  whole  mountain.     In  point  of  fact,  the  Dome  is 
not  visible  from  the  Notch. 


THE     CARTER     NOTCH.  137 

ground  we  were  upon,  stopped  by  the  side  of  a  well-built  cabin  of  bark, 
threw  off  our  loads,  and  then,  fascinated  by  the  exceeding  strangeness  of 
everything  around  me,  I  advanced  to  the  edge  of  the  scrubby  growth  in 
front  of  the  camp,  in  order  to  command  an  unobstructed  view. 

Shall  I  li\'e  long  enough  to  forget  this  sublime  tragedy  of  nature, 
enacted  Heaven  knows  when  or  how  ?  How  still  it  was !  I  seemed  to 
have  arrived  at  the  instant  a  death-like  silence  succeeds  the  catastrophe. 
I  saw  only  the  bare  walls  of  a  temple,  of  which  some  Samson  had  just 
overthrown  the  columns  —  walls  overgrown  with  a  forest,  ruins  over- 
spread with  one  struggling  for  existence. 

Imagine  the  light  of  a  mid-day  sun  brightening  the  tops  of  the  moun- 
tains, while  within  a  sepulchral  gloom  rendered  all  objects — rocks,  trees, 
cliffs — all  the  more  weird  and  fantastic.  I  was  between  two  high  moun- 
tains, whose  walls  enclose  the  pass.  Overhanging  it,  fifteen  hundred 
feet  at  least,  the  sunburnt  crags  of  the  Dome  towered  above  the  highest 
precipices  of  the  mountain  behind  me.  These  stately  barriers,  at  once 
so  noble  and  imposing,  seemed  absolutely  indestructible.  Impossible 
to  conceive  anything  more  enduring  than  this  imperishable  rock.  So 
long  as  the  world  stands,  those  mountains  will  stand.  And  nothing  can 
shake  this  conviction.  They  look  so  strong,  so  confident  in  their 
strength,  so  incapable  of  change. 

But  what,  then,  is  this  dusky  gray  mass,  stretching  huge  and  irregu- 
lar across  the  chasm  from  mountain  to  mountain,  completely  filling  the 
space  between,  and  so  effectually  blockading  the  entrance  that  we  were 
compelled  to  pick  our  way  up  the  steep  side  of  the  mountain  in  order  to 
turn  it  ? 

Picture  to  yourself  acres  upon  acres  of  naked  granite,  split  and  splin- 
tered in  every  conceivable  form,  of  enormous  size  and  weight,  yet  pitch- 
ed, piled,  and  tumbled  about  like  playthings,  tilted,  or  so  poised  and  bal- 
anced as  to  open  numberless  caves,  which  sprinkled  the  whole  area  with 
a  thousand  shadows — figure  this,  I  repeat,  to  yourself — and  the  mind  will 
then  grasp  but  faintly  the  idea  of  this  colossal  barricade,  seemingly  built 
by  the  giants  of  old  to  guard  their  last  stronghold  from  all  intrusion.  At 
some  distance  in  front  of  me  a  rock  of  prodigious  size,  very  closely  re- 
sembling the  gable  of  a  house,  thrusting  itself  half  out,  conveyed  its  hor- 
rible suGfeestion  of  an  avalanche  in  the  act  of  ingulfing  a  hamlet.  And 
all  this  one  beholds  in  a  kind  of  stupefaction. 

Whence  came  this  colossal  debris .''     I  had  at  first  the  idea  that  the 


138  THE     HEART    OE    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

great  arch,  springing  from  peak  to  peak,  supported  on  the  Atlantean 
shoulders  of  the  two  mountains,  had  fallen  in  ruins.  I  even  tried  to 
imagine  the  terrific  crasli  with  which  heaven  and  earth  came  together 
in  the  fall.  Easy  to  realize  here  Schiller's  graphic  description  of  the 
Jungfrau : 

"  One  walks  there  between  life  and  death.  Two  threatening  peaks 
shut  in  the  solitary  way.  Pass  over  this  place  of  terror  without  noise ; 
dread  lest  you  awaken  the  sleeping  avalanche." 

It  is  evident,  however,  as  soon  as  the  eye  attaches  itself  to  the  side 
of  the  Dome,  that  one  of  its  loftiest  precipices,  originally  measuring  an 
altitude  as  great  as  any  yet  remaining,  has  precipitated  itself  in  a 
crushed  and  broken  mass  into  the  abyss.  Nothing  is  left  of  the  primi- 
tive edifice  except  these  ruins.  It  is  easily  conceived  that,  previous  to 
the  convulsion,  the  interior  aspect  of  the  Notch  was  quite  different  from 
what  is  seen  to-day.  It  was  doubtless  narrower,  gloomier,  and  deeper 
before  the  cliff  became  dislodged.  The  track  of  the  convulsion  is  easily 
traced.  From  top  to  bottom  the  side  of  the  mountain  is  hollowed  out, 
exposing  a  shallow  ravine,  in  which  nothing  but  dwarf  spruces  will  grow, 
and  in  which  the  erratic  rocks,  arrested  here  and  there  in  their  fall,  seem 
endeavoring  to  regain  their  ancient  position  on  the  summit.  There  is 
no  trace  whatever  of  the  rubbish  ordinarily  accompanying  a  slide — only 
these  rocks. 

Seeing  that  all  this  happened  long  ago,  I  asked  the  guide  why  the 
larger  (jrowth  we  saw  on  both  sides  of  the  hollow  liad  not  succeeded  in 
covering  the  old  scar,  as  is  the  case  with  the  Willey  Slide ;  but  he  was 
unable  to  advance  even  a  conjecture.  The  spruce,  however,  loves  ruins, 
spreading  itself  out  over  them  with  avidity. 

We  felt  our  way  cautiously  and  slowly  out  over  the  bowlders ;  for  the 
moment  one  quits  the  usual  track  he  risks  falling  headlong  upon  the 
sharp  rocks  beneath.  In  the  midst  of  these  grisly  blocks  stunted  firs 
are  born,  and  die  for  want  of  sustenance,  making  the  dreary  waste  bristle 
with  hard  and  horny  skeletons.  The  spruce,  dwarfed  and  deformed,  has 
established  itself  solidly  in  the  interstices;  a  few  bushes  spring  up  in 
the  crannies.  With  this  exception,  the  entire  area  is  denuded  of  vegeta- 
tion. The  obstruction  is  heaped  in  two  principal  ridges,  traversing  its 
greatest  breadth,  and  opening  a  broad  way  between.  This  is  one  of  the 
most  curious  features  I  remarked.  From  a  fiat  rock  on  the  summit  of 
the  first  we  obtained  the  best  idea  of  the  general  configuration  of  the 


THE     CA  R  TE  R     X  O  T  C  H.  1 3  9 

Notch ;  and  from  this  point,  also,  we  saw  the  two  little  lakes  beneath  us 
which  are  the  sources  of  the  Wildcat.  Beyond,  and  above  the  hollow 
they  occupy,  the  two  mountains  meet  in  the  low  ridge  constituting  the 
true  summit  of  Carter  Notch.  Far  down,  under  the  bowlders,  the  Wild- 
cat gropes  its  way  out ;  but,  notwithstanding  one  or  the  other  was  con- 
tinually dropping  out  of  sight  into  the  caverns  with  which  they  are  filled, 
we  could  neither  hear  nor  see  anything  to  indicate  its  route.  It  is 
buried  out  of  sight  and  sound. 

No  incident  of  the  whole  excursion  is  more  curiously  inexplicable 
than  the  total  disappearance  of  the  brook  at  the  mountain's  foot.  No- 
tice that  it  was  last  seen  gushing  from  the  side  we  ascended,  half  a  mile 
below  the  camp.  W' hence  does  it  come  ?  When  we  were  on  top  of 
the  bowlders,  looking  down  on  the  water  of  the  two  little  lakes,  we  won- 
deringly  ask,  "  Where  does  it  go .''  How  does  it  get  out  ?"  The  mys- 
tery is,  however,  solved  by  the  certainty  that  their  waters  flow  out  un- 
derneath the  barrier,  so  that  this  mammoth  pile  of  debris,  which  could 
destroy  a  city,  was  unable  to  arrest  the  flow  of  a  rivulet. 

But  all  this  wreck  and  ruin  exerts  a  saddening  influence ;  it  seems  to 
prefigure  the  Death  of  the  Mountain.  So  one  gladly  turns  to  the  land- 
scape— a  very  noble  though  not  extensive  one — enclosing  all  the  moun- 
tains and  valleys  to  the  south  of  us  lying  between  Kearsarge  and  Moat. 
■  After  this  tour  of  the  rocks,  we  returned  to  the  hut  and  ate  our 
luncheon.  Here  the  Pulpit  Rock,  which  is  sure  to  catch  the  eye  when- 
ever it  wanders  to  the  cliffs  opposite,  looks  very  much  like  the  broken 
handle  of  a  jug.  Davis  explained  that,  by  advancing  fifteen  or  twenty 
paces  upon  it,  it  would  be  possible  to  hang  suspended  over  the  thousand 
feet  of  space  beneath.  While  thus  occupied,  the  dog  received  his  share 
of  the  bread  and  meat ;  nor  was  the  little  tame  hawk  that  came  and 
hopped  so  fearlessly  at  our  feet  forgotten.  This  bird  and  a  ci'oss-bill 
were  the  only  living  things  I  saw.' 


'  The  guide  knew  no  other  name  for  the  larger  bird  than  meat-hawk ;  but  its  size,  plumage, 
and  utter  fearlessness  are  characteristic  of  the  Canada  jay,  occasionally  encountered  in  these 
high  latitudes.  I  cannot  refrain  from  reminding  the  reader  that  the  cross-bill  is  the  subject  of 
a  beautiful  German  legend,  translated  by  Longfellow.  The  dying  and  forsaken  Saviour  sees  a 
little  bird  striving  to  draw  the  nail  from  his  bleeding  palm  with  his  beak  : 

"And  the  Saviour  spoke  in  mildness:  "And  the  bird  is  called  the  cross-bill; 

'  Blest  be  thou  of  all  the  good!  Covered  all  with  blood  so  clear. 

Bear,  as  token  of  this  moment.  In  the  groves  of  pine  it  siugeth 

Marks  of  blood  and  holy  rood !'  Songs  like  legends,  strange  to  hear " 


140  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUATAINS. 

Being  fully  rested  and  refreshed,  we  started  on  a  second  exploration 
of  the  upper  part  of  the  Notch.  Thus  far  our  examination  had  been 
confined  to  the  lower  portion  only.  Descending  the  spur  upon  which 
the  hut  is  situated,  we  were,  in  a  few  moments,  at  the  bottom  of  the 
deep  cavity  lying  between  the  Giants'  Barricade  and  the  little  mountain 
forming  the  northern  portal.  This  area  is  undoubtedly  the  original  floor 
of  the  pass.  We  had  now  reached  a  position  between  the  lakes.  Look- 
ing backward,  the  barricade  lifted  a  black  and  frowning  wall  a  hundred 
and  fifty  feet  above  our  heads.  Looking  down,  the  water  of  the  lakes 
seemed  "  an  image  of  the  Dead  Sea  sleeping  at  the  foot  of  Jerusalem 
destroyed."  While  I  stood  looking  into  them,  a  passing  cloud,  pausing 
in  astonishment  at  seeing  itself  reflected  from  these  sjiadowy  depths, 
darkened  the  whole  interior.  Deprived  all  at  once  of  sunlight,  the  scene 
became  one  of  great  and  magnificent  solemnity.  The  pass  assumed  the 
appearance  of  a  vast  cavern.  The  ponds  lay  still  and  cold  below.  The 
air  grew  chill,  the  water  black  as  ink.  The  ruddy  color  faded  from  the 
cliffs.  They  became  livid.  I  saw  the  thousands  upon  thousands  of  fir- 
trees,  rigid  and  sombre,  ranged  tier  on  tier  like  spectators  in  an  immense 
circus,  who  are  awaiting  the  signal  for  some  terrible  spectacle  to  begin. 
When  the  cloud  tranquilly  resumed  its  journey,  a  load  seemed  lifted  off. 
It  was  Nature  repeating  to  herself, 

"Put  out  the  light,  and  then  put  out  the  hght." 

We  had  reached  the  camp  at  half-past  ten.  At  half-past  twelve  we 
began  the  ascent  of  the  Dome.  It  is  not  so  much  the  height  as  the 
steepness  of  this  mountain  that  wins  our  respect.  The  path  goes 
straight  up  to  the  first  summit,  deflects  a  little  to  reach  the  Pulpit,  and 
then,  turning  more  northerly,  ascends  for  a  mile  and  a  half  more  by  a 
much  easier  rise  to  the  highest  peak.  There  are  no  open  ledges  on  the 
route.  The  path  is  cut  through  a  wood  from  base  to  summit ;  and,  with 
the  exception  of  a  few  trees  felled  to  open  an  outlook  in  the  direction  of 
the  main  range,  was  covered  on  the  summit  itself  with  a  dense  growth  of 
fir-trees  from  twelve  to  fifteen  feet  high.  To  obtain  a  view  of  the  whole 
horizon,  it  was  necessary,  at  the  time  of  my  visit,  to  climb  one  of  these 
trees. 

I  will  not  fatigue  the  reader  with  any  detailed  account  of  the  ascent. 
Suffice  it  to  say  that  it  was  a  slow  and  toilsome  lifting  of  one  heavy  foot 
after  another  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour.     Sometimes  the  slope  was  so 


THE     CARTER     \OTCH.  141 

near  the  vertical  that  we  could  ascend  only  a  few  rods  at  a  time.  I  im- 
proved these  halts  by  leaning  against  a  tree,  and  panting  like  a  doe  pur- 
sued by  the  hunter.  Davis  threw  himself  upon  the  ground  and  watched 
me  attentively,  but  without  speaking.  If  he  expected  me  to  give  out,  I 
disappointed  him  by  giving  the  signal  to  move  on.  I  had  already  served 
my  apprenticeship  on  Carrigain.  It  was  difficult  to  maintain  an  upright 
position.  Once,  indeed,  on  looking  up,  I  perceived  that  the  guide  had 
abandoned  in  disgust  the  idea  of  walking  erect,  and  was  creeping  on  all- 
fours,  like  his  dog.  This  breathless  scramble  continued  for  three-quar- 
ters of  an  hour,  at  the  end  of  which  we  turned  into  the  short  by-path 
conducting  to  the  Pulpit. 

Near  the  Pulpit  is  a  cleared  space  large  enough  to  afford  standing 
room  for  fifteen  or  twenty  persons.  This  Pulpit  is  a  huge,  rectangular 
rock,  jutting  out  from  the  face  of  the  cliff  on  which  we  stood,  and  is 
not  at  all  unworthy  of  the  name  given  to  it  by  the  guide.  It  is  a  fine 
station  from  which  to  survey  the  deep  rent  in  the  side  of  the  mountain, 
as  well  as  the  mammoth  stone-heap,  which  it  overlooks.  The  black  side 
of  Mount  Wildcat,  ploughed  from  top  to  bottom  with  four  deep  gashes, 

"The  least  a  death  to  nature," 

is  also  seen  to  excellent  advantage  across  the  airy  space  between  the 
mountains.  The  fluttering  of  a  handkerchief  at  the  door  of  the  little 
cabin  greatlv  enlivened  the  solitary  scene,  and  drew  from  us  the  same 
sisfnal  in  return. 

At  first  sight  the  ascent  by  the  chasm  seems  feasible ;  but  Davis,  who 
has  twice  performed  this  difficult  feat,  declared  with  a  shrug  that  nothing 
would  tempt  him  to  do  it  again.  Those  who  have  ever  come  to  close 
quarters  with  the  shrubby  growtii  of  these  ruins  will  know  how  to  leave 
it  in  imdisputed  possession  of  its  own  chosen  ground.  The  dwarf  spruce 
is  the  Cossack  of  the  woods. 

What  a  beautiful  landscape  is  that  from  the  Pulpit !  TJie  southern 
horizon  is  now  widely  opened.  The  mountains  around  Jackson  have 
dwindled  to  hills.  Especially  curious  are  the  flattened  top  and  distorted 
contour-lines  of  Iron  Mountain.  Another  singular  feature  is  the  way  we 
look  through  the  cloven  summit  of  Doublehead  to  Kearsarge's  stately 
pyramid.  Here  are  strips  of  the  Ellis  and  Saco  Valleys,  and  all  of  the 
Wildcat.  The  lakes  in  Ossipee  are  dazzling  to  look  upon.  Old  Cho- 
corua  lifts  his  brilliant  spire ;   then  Moat  his   iron  bulwarks.     Crawford, 


142  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

Resolution,  and  the  Giants'  Stairs  extend  on  the  right,  behind  Iron. 
The  view  is  then  cut  off  by  the  burly  form  of  Wildcat.  Far  back  in 
the  picture  are  the  notched  walls  of  the  Franconia  and  Sandwich  chains, 
topped  by  pale  blue  peaks. 

Continuing  the  ascent  for  about  three-fourths  of  a  mile,  we  came  to 
a  point  only  a  rod  or  two  distant  from  the  head  of  the  great  slide  of 
1869,  and  from  the  top  of  a  tree  here  was  the  most  thrilling  prospect  of 
Washington  and  the  great  northern  peaks  I  ever  beheld.  All  the  sum- 
mits as  far  south  as  Monroe  are  included  in  the  view. 

Over  the  right  shoulder  of  Wildcat  appeared  the  dazzling  summit  of 
Washington,  having  at  his  left  the  noble  cone  of  Jefferson,  the  match- 
less shaft  of  Adams,  and  the  massive  pyramid  of  Madison.  Each  gray 
head  was  j^rofusely  powdered  with  snow.  Dark  clouds,  hea\^ily  charged 
with  frost,  partially  intercepted  the  suns  rays,  and,  enveloping  the  great 
mountains  in  their  shadows,  cast  over  them  a  mantle  of  the  deepest 
blue ;  but  enough  light  escaped  to  gild  the  arid  slopes  of  the  great  ra- 
vines a  rich  brown  gold,  and  to  pierce  through,  and  beautifully  expose, 
against  the  dark  bulk  of  Adams,  a  thin  veil  of  slowly  falling  snow.  Im- 
agine an  Ethiopian  wrapped  from  bead  to  foot  in  lace ! 

A  chapter  could  not  give  the  thousand  details  of  this  grand  picture. 
One  devours  it  with  avidity.  He  sees  to  the  greatest  possible  advantage 
the  magnificent  proportions  of  Washington,  with  his  massive  slopes  roll- 
ing up  and  up,  like  petrified  storm-clouds,  to  the  final  summit.  He  sees 
the  miles  of  carriage-road,  from  where  it  leaves  the  woods,  as  far  as  the 
great  northern  plateau.  He  looks  deep  down  into  the  depths  of  Tucker- 
man's  and  Huntington's  ravines,  and  between  them  sees  Raymond's  Cat- 
aract crusting  the  bare  cliffs  with  a  vein  of  quicksilver.  The  massive 
head-wall  of  Tuckerman's  was  freely  spattered  with  fresh  snow ;  the  Lion's 
Head  rose  stark  and  forbidding;  the  upper  cliffs  of  Huntington's, 

"With  twenty  trenched  gashes  in  his  head," 

the  great  billows  of  land  rushing  downward  into  the  dark  gulfs,  resem- 
bled the  vortex  of  a  frozen  whirlpool. 

But  for  refinement  of  form,  delicacy  of  outline,  and  a  predominant, 
inexplicable  grace,  Adams  stands  forth  here  without  a  rival.  Washing- 
ton is  the  undisputed  monarch,  but  Adams  is  the  highest  type  of  moun- 
tain beauty  here.  That  splendid,  slightly  concave,  antique  shaft,  rising  in 
unconscious  symmetry  from  the  shoulders  of  two  supporting  mountain- 


THE     CARTER     NOTCH.  143 

peaks,  which  seem  prostrating  themselves  at  its  feet,  changes  the  emo- 
tion of  awe  and  respect  to  one  of  admiration  and  pleasure.  Our  eleva- 
tion presented  all  the  great  summits  in  an  unrivalled  attitude  for  obser- 
vation or  study ;  and  whoever  has  once  beheld  them — banded  together 
with  bonds  of  adamant,  their  heads  in  the  snow,  and  their  feet  in  the 
impenetrable  shades  of  the  Great  Gulf;  with  every  one  of  their  thou- 
sands of  feet  under  his  eye  —  every  line  as  firm  and  strong,  and  every 
contour  true  as  the  Great  Architect  drew  it — without  loss  or  abatement; 
vigorous  in  old  age  as  in  youth ;  monuments  of  one  race,  and  silent 
spectators  of  the  passing  of  another;  victors  in  the  battle  with  Time; 
chronicles  and  retrospect  of  ages;  types  of  the  Everlasting  and  Un- 
changeable— will  often  try  to  summon  up  the  picture  of  the  great  peaks, 
and  once  more  marshal  their  towering  battlements  before  the  memory. 

The  descent  occupied  less  than  half  an  hour,  so  rapidly  is  it  made. 
We  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  regulating  our  speed,  but  were 
fully  occupied  in  so  placing  our  feet  as  to  avoid  pitching  headlong,  or 
sitting  suddenly  down  in  a  miry  place.  We  simply  tumbled  down  the 
mountain,  like  two  rocks  detached  from  its  peak. 

After  a  last  survey  of  the  basin  of  the  Notch,  from  the  clearing  above 
the  upper  lake,  we  crossed  the  little  mountain  at  its  head,  taking  the 
path  leading  to  the  Glen  House.  We  descended  the  reverse  side  to- 
gether, to  the  point  where  the  great  slide  referred  to  came  thundering 
down  from  the  Dome  into  the  gorge  of  Nineteen  Mile  Brook.  This 
landslip,  which  happened  October  4th,  1869,  was  one  of  the  results  of 
the  disastrous  autumnal  storms,  which  deluged  the  mountains  with  rain, 
and  set  in  motion  here  an  enormous  quantity  of  wreck  and  debris.  It 
was  at  this  time  that  Mr.  Thompson,  the  proprietor  of  the  Glen  House, 
lost  his  life  in  the  Peabody  River,  in  a  desperate  effort  to  avert  the  de- 
struction of  his  mill. 

Here  I  parted  from  my  guide;  and,  after  threading  the  woods  for  two 
hours  more,  following  the  valley  of  Nineteen  Mile  Brook,  came  out  of 
their  shadowy  embrace  into  the  stony  pastures  above  the  Glen  House. 


144  r/f£    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 


IV. 

THE    PINKHAM    NOTCH. 
Levons  les  yeux  vers  les  saintes  montagnes. — Racixe. 

THE  Glen  House  is  one  of  the  last  strongholds  of  the  old  ways  of 
travel.  Jackson  is  twelve,  Randolph  seven,  and  Gorham  eight  miles 
distant.  These  are  the  nearest  villages.  The  nearest  farm-houses  are 
Copp's,  three  miles  on  the  road  to  Randolph,  and  Emery's,  six  on  the 
road  to  Jackson.  The  nearest  railway-station  is  eight  miles  off,  at  Gor- 
ham.    The  nearest  steam-whistle  is  there.     So  much  for  its  seclusion. 

Being  thus  isolated,  the  Glen  House  is  naturallv  the  point  of  direc- 
tion for  the  region  adjacent.  Situated  at  the  base  of  Carter  Mountain, 
on  a  terrace  rising  above  the  Peabody  River,  which  it  overlooks,  it  has 
only  the  valley  of  this  stream  —  a  half  mile  of  level  meadow  here  —  be- 
tween it  and  the  base  of  Mount  Washington.  The  carriage-road  to  the 
summit,  which,  in  1861,  superseded  the  old  bridle-path,  is  seen  crossing 
this  meadow.  This  road  occupied  si.\  years  in  building,  is  eight  miles 
long,  and  is  as  well  and  solidly  built  as  any  similar  piece  of  highway  in 
New  England. 

When  it  is  a  question  of  this  gigantic  mass,  which  here  offers  such 
an  easy  mode  of  ascent,  the  interest  is  assured.  Respecting  the  appear- 
ance of  Mount  Washington  from  the  Glen  House  itself,  it  is  a  received 
truth  that  neither  the  height  nor  the  proportions  of  a  high  mountain  are 
properly  appreciated  when  the  spectator  is  placed  exactly  at  the  base. 
The  same  is  true  here  of  Mount  Washington,  which  is  too  much  fore- 
shortened for  a  favorable  estimate  of  its  grandeur  or  its  elevation.  The 
Dome  looks  flat,  elongated,  obese.  But  it  is  only  a  step  from  the  hotel 
to  more  eligible  posts  of  observation,  say  the  clearings  on  Mount  Car- 
ter, or,  better  still,  the  slopes  of  Wildcat,  which  are  easily  reached  over 
a  good  path. 


THE     PINK  HAM    NOTCH.  145 

Still,  Mount  Washington  is  surveyed  with  more  astonishment,  per- 
haps, from  this  point,  than  from  any  other.  Its  lower  section  is  covered 
with  a  dense  forest,  out  of  which  rise  the  successive  and  stupendous  un- 
dulations culminating  at  last  in  the  absolutely  barren  summit,  which  the 
nearer  swells  almost  conceal.  The  true  peak  stands  well  to  the  left,  indi- 
cated by  a  white  building  when  the  sun  is  shining",  and  a  dark  one  when 
it  is  not.  As  seen  from  this  spot,  the  peculiar  formation  of  the  mountain 
gives  the  impression  of  a  semi-tiuid  mass,  first  cooled  to  hardness,  then 
receiving  successive  additions,  which,  although  eternally  united  with 
its  bulk,  have  left  the  point  of  contact  forever  visible.  When  the  first 
mass  cooled,  it  received  a  second,  a  third,  and  a  fourth.  One  believes, 
so  to  speak,  certain  'intervals  to  have  elapsed  in  the  process  of  solidify- 
ing these  masses,  which  seem,  to  me  at  least,  not  risen  above  the  earth, 
but  poured  down  upon  it. 

It  is  related  that  an  Englishman,  seated  on  the  balcony  of  his  hotel 
at  Chamouni,  after  having  conscientiously  followed  the  peripatetics  of  a 
sunset,  remarked,  "Very  fine,  very  fine  indeed!  but  it  is  a  pity  Mont 
Blanc  hides  the  view."  In  this  sense.  Mount  Washington  "  hides  the 
view  "  to  the  west.     No  peak  dares  show  its  head  in  this  direction. 

From  the  vicinity  of  the  hotel,  Wildcat  Mountain  allows  the  eye  to 
embrace,  at  the  left.  Mount  Washington  as  far  as  Tuckerman's  Ravine. 
Only  a  few  miles  of  the  valley  can  be  traced  on  this  side;  but  at  thi- 
right  it  is  open  for  nearly  its  whole  length,  fully  exposing  that  magnifi- 
cent sweep  of  the  great  northern  peaks,  here  bending  majestically  to  the 
north-east,  and  exhibiting  their  titanic  props,  deep  hollows,  soaring  peaks, 
to  the  admiring  scrutiny  of  every  wayfarer.  It  is  impossible  to  appre- 
ciate this  view  all  at  once.  No  one  can  pretend  to  analyze  the  sensa- 
tions produced  by  looking  at  mountains.  The  bare  thought  of  them 
causes  a  flutter  of  enthusiasm  wherever  we  may  be.  At  such  moments 
one  lays  down  the  pen  to  revel  in  the  recollection. 

Among  these  grandees,  Adams  looks  highest.  It  is  indispensable  that 
this  mountain  should  be  seen  from  some  higher  point.  It  is  only  half 
seen  from  the  Glen,  although  the  view  here  is  by  far  the  best  to  be  had 
in  any  valley  enclosing  the  great  chain.  Ascend,  therefore,  even  at  the 
risk  of  some  toil,  one  of  the  adjacent  heights,  and  this  superb  monument 
will  deign  to  show  the  true  symmetrical  relation  of  summit  to  base. 

I  have  already  said  that  most  travellers  approach  this  charming 
mountain  nook  by  the   Pinkham  defile,  instead  of  making  their  debut  by 

1 1 


146  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

the  Carter  Notch.  It  will  be  well  worth  our  while  to  retrace  at  least  so 
much  of  this  route,  through  the  first- named  pass,  as  will  enable  us  to 
gain  a  knowledge,  not  so  much  of  what  it  shows  as  of  what  it  hides.  By 
referring  to  the  chapter  on  Jackson,  we  shall  then  have  seen  all  that  can 
be  seen  on  the  travelled  highway. 

The  four  miles  back  througli  the  Pinkham  forest  deserve  to  be 
called  the  Avenue  of  Cascades.  Not  less  than  four  drop  from  the 
mountain  tops,  or  leap  down  the  confined  gorges.  Let  us  first  walk  in 
this  direction. 

Two  miles  from  the  hotel  we  meet  a  sprightly  and  vigorous  brook 
coming  down  from  Wildcat  Mountain  to  swell  the  Peabody.  A  short 
walk  up  this  stream  brings  us  to  Thompson's  Falls,  which  are  several 
pretty  cascades  slipping  down  a  bed  of  granite.  The  ledges  over  which 
they  glide  of¥er  a  practicable  road  to  the  top  of  the  falls,  from  which  is 
a  most  interestins:  view  into  Tuckerman's  Ravine,  and  of  the  summit  of 
Mount  Washington. 

Some  overpowering,  some  unexplained  fascination  about  these  dark 
and  mysterious  chambers  of  the  mountain  arouses  in  us  a  desire  strange- 
Iv  like  to  that  intense  cravintr  for  a  knowled2:e  of  futuritv  itself.  We 
think  of  the  Purgatory  of  the  ancients  into  which  we  would  willingly 
descend  if,  like  Dante  holding  the  hand  of  Virgil,  we  might  hope  to  re- 
turn unscathed  to  earth.  "  This  is  nothing  but  an  enormous  breach  in 
the  mountain,"  you  say,  weakly  attempting  to  throw  off  the  spell  by  ridi- 
culintr  the  imafrination.  Be  it  so.  But  it  has  all  the  terrible  suggestive- 
ness  of  a  descent  into  the  world  of  the  dead.  When  we  walk  in  the 
dark  we  say  that  we  are  afraid  of  falling.  It  is  a  falsehood.  We  are 
afraid  of  a  Presence. 

That  dark  curling  lip  of  the  south  wall,  looking  as  if  the  eternal  ada- 
mant of  the  hills  had  been  scorched  and  shrivelled  by  consuming  flame, 
marks  the  highest  curve  of  the  massive  granite  spur  rooted  deep  in  the 
Pinkham  defile.  It  is  named  Boott's  Spur.  The  sky-line  t)f  the  ravine's 
head-wall  is  five  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  on  the  great  plateau  over 
which  the  Crawford  trail  passes.  That  enormous  crag,  rising  like  an- 
other Tower  of  Famine,  on  the  north  and  east  divides  the  ravine  proper 
from  the  collateral  chamber,  known  as  Huntington's,  out  of  which  the 
source  of  the  Peabody  gushes  a  swift  torrent,  and  near  which  the  car- 
riage-road winds  its  devious  way  up  to  the  summit.  In  the  depression 
of  this  craggv  ridge,  between  the  two  ravines,  sufficient  water  is  collected 


THE    FINK  HAM    NOTCH. 


147 


to  form  the  beautiful  cataract  known  as   Raymond's,  whicli  is  seen  from 
all  those  elevations  commanding  the  ravine  itself. 

The  ravine  also  furnishes  a  route  to  the  summit  of  Mount  Washing- 
ton in  so  far  that  the  ascent  may  be  continued  from  tlie  head  of  the 
chasni  to  the  high  plateau,  and  so  up  the  pinnacle,  by  the  old  Crawford 
trail,  or  over  the  crag  on  the  right  to  the  carriage-road;  but  it  is  not  to 
be  highly  recommended  on  that  account,  except  to  strong  climbers.  It 
should  be  visited  for  itself,  and  for  what  is  to  be  seen  going  or  returning 
by  the  different  paths.     I  have  also  descended  from  the  Summit   House 


THE    EMERALD    POOL. 


to  the  ravine  and  returned  by  the  same  route;  an  excursion  growing  in 
favor  with  those  tourists  having  a  day  or  two  on  their  hands,  and  who 
approach  the  mountain  from  the  west  or  opposite  side.  In  that  case  a 
return  to  the  summit  saves  a  long  di'-tour. 

Before  we  come  to  Thompsons  F"alls  a  well-trod  path  leads  to  the 
Emerald  Pool,  which  Bierstadt's  painting  has  rendered  famous.  At  first 
one  sees  only  a  deep  hollow,  with  a  dark  and  glassy  pool  at  the  bottom, 
and  a  cool  light  coming  down  through  the  high  tree -tops.      Two  large 


148  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

rocks  tightly  compress  the  stream  which  fills  it,  so  that  the  water  gushes 
out  with  sufficient  force  to  whiten  a  little,  without  disturbing  the  placid 
repose  of  the  pool.  This  gives  the  effect  of  milk  poured  upon  ink. 
Above  these  rocks  we  look  up  the  stony  bed  of  the  frantic  river  and 
meet  the  blue  mass  of  a  distant  mountain.  Rocks  are  picturesquely 
dropped  about  the  margin.  Upon  one  side  a  birch  leans  far  out  over 
the  basin,  whose  polished  surface  brilliantly  reflects  the  white  light  of 
its  bark.  One  sees  the  print  of  foliage  on  the  black  water,  like  that  of 
ferns  and  grasses  upon  coal ;  or,  rather,  like  the  most  beautiful  Italian 
mosaics  —  black  marble  inlaid  with  arabesques  of  color.  The  illusion  is 
more  perfect  still  when  the  yellow  and  scarlet  of  the  maples  is  reflected, 
as  in  autumn. 

The  contrast  between  the  absolutely  quiet  pool  and  the  feverish  ex- 
citement of  the  river  is  singular.  It  is  that  of  a  life:  one,  serene  and  un- 
moved, receives  the  other  in  its  bosom  and  calms  its  excitement.  It  then 
runs  out  over  the  pebbles  at  a  steadier  pace,  soothed,  tranquillized,  and 
strengthened,  to  meet  its  destiny  by  this  one  moment  of  peace  and  rest. 

Doubtless  many  turn  languidly  into  this  charming  sylvan  retreat  with 
only  a  dim  perception  of  its  beauty.  Few  go  away  except  to  sing  its 
praises  with  heart  and  tongue.  Solitude  is  here.  Repose  is  here. 
Peace  is  omnipresent.  And,  freed  from  the  excitements  of  city  life, 
"Peace  at  any  price"  is  the  cry  of  him  whom  care  pursues  as  with  a 
knotted  scourge.  If  he  find  not  rest  here,  'tis  his  soul  "is  poor."  For 
him  the  smell  of  the  earth,  the  fragrance  of  the  pines,  the  very  stones, 
have  healing  or  strength.  He  grows  drowsy  with  the  lullaby  of  the  brook. 
A  delicious  languor  steals  over  him.  A  thousand  dreamy  fancies  float 
through  his  imagination.  He  is  a  child  again ;  or,  rather,  he  is  born 
again.  The  artificial  man  drops  off.  Stocks  and  bonds  are  clean  for- 
gotten. His  step  is  more  elastic,  his  eye  more  alert,  his  heart  lighter. 
He  departs  believing  he  has  read,  "  Let  all  who  enter  here  leave  care  be- 
hind." And  all  this  comes  of  seeing  a  little  shaded  mountain  pool  con- 
secrated by  Nature.  He  has  only  experienced  her  religion  and  received 
her  baptism. 

Burying  ourselves  deeper  in  the  pass,  the  trees,  stirred  by  the  breeze, 
shake  out  their  foliage  like  a  maiden  her  long  tresses.  And  the  glory  of 
one  is  the  glory  of  the  other.  We  look  up  to  the  greater  mountains,  still 
wrapped  in  shadows,  saying  to  those  whom  its  beams  caress,  "  Out  of 
my  sun !" 


THE     PINKHAM    NOTCH. 


149 


At  the  third  mile 
a  guide -board  at  the 
right  announces  the 
Crystal  Cascade.  We 
turn  aside  here,  and, 
entering  the  wood, 
soon  reach  the  banks 
of  a  stream.  The  last 
courtesy  this  white- 
robed  maid  makes  on 
crossing  the  threshold 
of  her  mountain  home 
is  called  the  Crystal 
Cascade.  It  is  an 
adieu  full  of  grace  and 
feeling. 

The  Crystal  Cas- 
cade divides  with  Glen 
Ellis  the  honor  of  be- 
ing the  most  beautiful 
water-fall  of  the  White 
Mountains.  And  well 
may  it  claim  this  dis- 
tinction. These  two 
charming  and  radiant 
sisters  have  each  their 
especial  admirers,  who 
come  in  multitudes  ev- 
ery year,  like  pilgrims 
to  the  shrine  of  a  god- 
dess. In  fact,  they  are 
as  unlike  as  two  hu- 
man countenances.  Ev- 
ery one  is  astonished 
at  the  changes  effected 
by  simple  combinations 
of  rocks,  trees,  and  wa- 
ter.    One  shrinks  from 


THE   CRYSTAL   CASCADE. 


1  I 


150  THE     HEART     OF     THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

a  critical  analysis  of  what  appeals  so  strangely  to  his  human  sympathies. 
Indeed,  he  should  possess  the  language  of  a  Dumas  or  a  Ruskin,  the  poe- 
try of  a  Longfellow  or  a  Whittier,  the  pencil  of  a  Turner  or  a  Church, 
to  do  justice  to  this  pre-eminently  beautiful  of  cascades. 

Look  around.  On  the  right  bank  of  the  stream,  where  a  tall  birch 
leans  its  forked  branches  out  over  the  pool  below,  a  jutting  rock  em- 
braces in  one  glance  the  greater  part  of  the  fall.  The  cliffs,  rising  on 
both  sides,  make  a  most  wild  and  impressive  setting.  The  trees,  which 
shade  or  partly  screen  it,  exclude  the  light.  The  ferns  and  shrubbery 
trace  their  arabesques  of  foliage  upon  the  cold,  damp  rocks.  The  sides 
of  the  mountain,  receding  into  black  shadows,  seem  set  with  innumer- 
able columns,  supporting  a  roof  of  dusky  leafage.  All  this  combines  to 
produce  the  effect  of  standing  under  the  vault  of  some  old  dimly-lighted 
cathedral  —  a  subdued,  a  softened  feeling.  A  voice  seems  whispering, 
"  God  is  here!" 

ThrouQ;h  these  sombre  shades  the  cascade  comes  like  a  2;leam  of 
light :  it  redeems  the  solitude.  High  up,  hundreds  of  feet  up  the 
mountain,  it  boils  and  foams ;  it  hardly  seems  to  run.  How  it  turns 
and  tosses,  and  writhes  on  its  hard  bed !  The  green  leaves  quiver  at  its 
struggles.  Birds  fly  silently  by.  Down,  down,  and  still  down  over  its 
shattered  stairs  falls  the  doomed  flood,  until,  lashed  and  broken  into  a 
mere  feathery  cloud,  it  reaches  a  narrow  gorge  between  abrupt  cliffs  of 
granite.  A  little  pellucid  basin,  half  white,  half  black  water,  receives  it 
in  full  career.  It  then  flows  out  by  a  pretty  water-fall  of  twenty  feet 
more.  But  here,  again,  the  sharp,  wedge-shaped  cliff,  advancing  from  the 
opposite  bank,  compresses  its  whole  volume  within  a  deep  and  narrow 
trough,  through  which  it  flies  with  the  rapidity  of  light,  makes  a  right 
angle,  and  goes  down  the  mountain,  uttering  loud  complaints.  From 
below,  the  jagged,  sharp -edged  cliff  forms  a  kind  of  vestibule,  behind 
which  the  cascade  conceals  itself.  Behind  this,  farther  back,  is  a  rock, 
perfectly  black,  and  smooth  as  polished  ebony,  over  which  the  surplus 
water  of  the  fall  spreads  a  tangled  web  of  antique  lace.  Some  very 
curious  work  has  been  going  on  here  since  the  stream  first  made  its  way 
through  the  countless  obstacles  it  meets  in  the  long  miles  to  its  secret 
fountains  on  Mount  Washington.  One  carries  away  a  delightful  impres- 
sion of  the  Crystal  Cascade.  To  the  natural  beauty  of  falling  water  it 
brintjs  the  charm  of  lawless  unrestraint.  It  scorns  the  straight  and  nar- 
row  path;  has  stolen   interviews  with  secret  nooks  on   this  side  or  that; 


THE    PINK  HAM    NOTCH.  151 

is  forever  coquettish!}'  adjusting  its  beautiful  dishabille.  What  power 
has  taken  one  of  those  dazzling  clouds,  floating  over  the  great  summit, 
and  pinned  it  to  the  mountain  side,  from  which  it  strives  to  rise  and 
soar  away? 

We  are  now  in  the  wildest  dcptlis  of  the  Pinkham  defile.  The  road 
is  gloomy  enough,  edging  its  way  always  through  a  dense  wood  around 
a  spur  of  Mount  Washington,  which  it  closely  hugs.  Upon  reaching 
the  summit,  thirteen  hundred  and  fifty  feet  above  the  Saco,  at  Bartlett, 
a  sign-board  showed  where  to  leave  the  highway,  but  now  the  noise  of 
the  fall  comina:  clearer  and  clearer  was  an  even  surer  sruide. 

The  sense  of  seclusion  is  perfect.  Stately  pines,  funereal  cedars, 
sombre  hemlocks,  throng  the  banks,  as  if  come  to  refresh  their  parched 
foliage  with  the  fine  spray  ascending  from  the  cataract.  This  spray 
sparkles  in  the  sun  like  diamond -dust.  Through  the  thick -set,  clean- 
limbed tree-trunks  jets  of  foam  can  be  seen  in  mad  riot  along  the  rocky 
gorge.  They  leap,  toss  their  heads,  and  tumble  over  each  other  like 
young  lambs  at  play.  Backward  up  the  stream,  downward  beyond  the 
fall,  we  see  the  same  tumult  of  waters  in  the  midst  of  statuesque  immo- 
bility ;  we  hear  the  roar  of  the  fall  echoing  in  the  tops  of  the  pines ;  we 
feel  the  dull  earth  throb  with  the  superabundant  energy  of  the  wild 
river. 

Making  my  way  to  the  rocks  above  the  cataract,  I  saw  the  torrent 
swiftly  descending  in  two  long,  arching  billows,  flecked  with  foam,  and 
tossing  myriad  diamonds  to  tlie  sun.  Two  large  masses  of  rock, 
loosened  from  the  cliffs  that  hang  over  it,  have  dropped  into  the  stream, 
turning  it  a  little  from  its  ancient  course,  but  only  to  make  it  more  pict- 
uresque and  more  tumultuous.  On  the  left  of  the  gorge  the  rocks  are 
richly  striped  with  black,  yellow,  and  purple.  The  water  is  crystal  clear, 
and  cold  as  ice,  havina;  come,  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  write,  from  the 
snows  of  Tuckerman's  Ravine.  The  variegated  hues  of  the  rocks,  trlis- 
tening  with  spray,  of  the  water  itself  seizing  and  imprisoning,  like  flies 
in  amber,  every  shadow  these  rocks  let  fall,  the  roar  of  the  cataract,  make  ^ 
a  deep  and  abiding  impression  of  savage  force  and  beauty. 

But  I  had  not  yet  seen  the  fall.  Descending  by  slippery  stairs  to 
the  pool  beneath  it,  I  saw,  eighty  feet  above  me,  the  whole  stream  force 
its  way  through  a  narrow  cleft,  and  stand  in  one  unbroken  column,  su- 
perbly erect,  upon  the  level  surface  of  the  pool.  The  sheet  was  as  white 
as  marble,  the  pool  as  green  as  malachite.     As  if  stunned  by  the  fall,  it 


152  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

turns  slowly  round;  then,  recovering,  precipitates  itself  down  the  rocky 
gorge  with  greater  passion  than  ever. 

On  its  upper  edge  the  curling  sheet  of  the  fall  was  shot  with  sun- 
light, and  shone  with  enchanting  brilliancy.  All  below  was  one  white, 
feathery  mass,  gliding  down  with  the  swift  and  noiseless  movement  of  an 
avalanche  of  fresh  snow.  No  sound  until  the  moment  of  contact  with 
the  submerged  rocks  beneath ;  then  it  finds  a  voice  that  shakes  the 
hoary  forest  to  its  centre.  How  this  exquisite  white  thing  fascinates ! 
One  has  almost  to  tear  himself  away  from  the  spot.  Undine  seems 
beckoning  us  to  descend  with  her  into  the  crystal  grottoes  of  the  pool. 
From  the  tender  dalliance  of  a  sunbeam  with  the  glittering  mists  con- 
stantly ascending  was  born  a  pale  Iris.  Exquisitely  its  evanescent  hues 
decorated  the  virgin  drapery  of  the  fall.  Within  these  mists  two  airy 
forms  sometimes  discover  themselves,  hand-in-hand. 

The  story  runs  that  the  daughter  of  a  sagamore  inhabiting  the  little 
vale,  now  Jackson,  was  secretly  wooed  and  won  by  a  young  brave  of  an- 
other and  neighboring  tribe.  But  the  haughty  old  chief  destined  her  for 
a  renowned  warrior  of  his  own  band.  Mustering  his  friends,  the  pre- 
ferred lover  presented  himself  in  the  village,  and,  according  to  Indian 
usage,  laying 

" — at  her  father's  feet  that  night 
His  softest  furs  and  wampum  white." 

demanded  his  bride.  The  alliance  was  too  honorable  to  permit  an 
abrupt  refusal.  Smothering  his  wrath,  the  father  assembled  his  braves. 
The  matter  was  debated  in  solemn  council.  It  was  determined  that  the 
rivals  should  settle  their  dispute  by  a  trial  of  skill,  the  winner  to  carry 
off  the  beautiful  prize.  A  mark  was  set  up,  the  ground  carefully  meas- 
ured, and  the  two  warriors  took  their  respective  places  in  the  midst  of 
the  assembled  tribe.  The  heart  of  the  Indian  maiden  beat  with  hope 
when  her  lover  sent  his  arrow  quivering  in  the  edge  of  the  target;  but 
it  sunk  when  his  rival,  stepping  scornfully  to  his  place,  shot  within  the 
very  centre.  A  shout  of  triumph  rewarded  the  skill  of  the  victor;  but 
before  it  died  away  the  defeated  warrior  strode  to  the  spot  where  his 
mistress  was  seated  and  spoke  a  few  hurried  words,  intended  for  her  ear 
alone.  The  girl  sprung  to  her  feet  and  grasped  her  lover's  hand.  In 
another  moment  they  were  running  swiftly  for  the  woods.  They  were 
hotly  pursued.  It  became  a  matter  of  life  and  death.  Perceiving  escape 
impossible,  rendered  desperate  by  the   near  approach   of  their  pursuers, 


THE    PINK  HAM    NOTCH.  1 53 

the  fugitives,  still  holdins:  fast  each  other's  hand,  rushed  to  the  ver^e  of 
the  cataract  and  flung  themselves  headlong  into  its  deadly  embrace. 

Over  the  pool  the  gray  and  gloomy  wall  of  Wildcat  Mountain  seems 
stretching  up  to  an  incredible  height.  The  astonishing  wildness  of  the 
surroundings  affects  one  very  deeply.  You  look  up.  You  see  the  firs 
surmounting  those  tall  cliffs  sway  to  and  fro,  as  if  growing  dizzy  with 
the  sight  of  the  abyss  beneath  them. 

The  Ellis  Cascade  is  not  so  light  as  those  mountain  sylphs  in  the 
great  Notch,  which  a  zephyr  lifts  from  their  feet,  and  scatters  far  and 
wide ;  it  is  a  vestal  hotly  pursued  by  impish  goblins  to  the  brink  of  the 
precipice,  transformed  into  a  water-fall.  For  an  instant  the  iron  grip  of 
the  cliff  seems  clutching  its  snowy  throat,  but  with  a  mocking  courtesy 
the  fair  stream  eludes  the  grasp,  and  so  escapes. 

While  returning  from  Glen  Ellis,  I  saw,  not  more  than  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  from  this  fall,  a  beautiful  cascade  come  streaming  down  a  long 
trough  of  granite  from  a  great  height,  and  disappear  behind  the  tree-tops 
that  skirt  the  narrow  gorge.  I  had  never  before  seen  this  cascade,  it 
being  usually  dry  in  summer.  The  sight  of  glancing  water  among  the 
shaggy  upper  forests  of  the  mountain — for  you  hear  nothing — is  a  real 
pleasure  to  the  eye.  The  rock  down  which  this  cascade  flows  is  New 
River  Cliff. 

Before  leaving  the  Ellis,  which  I  did  regretfully,  it  is  proper  to  recall 
an  incident  which  gave  rise  to  one  of  its  affluents.  In  1775,  says  Sulli- 
van, in  his  "  History  of  Maine,"  the  Saco  was  found  to  swell  suddenly, 
and  in  a  singular  manner.  As  there  had  not  been  rain  sufficient  to  ac- 
count for  this  increase  of  volume,  people  were  at  a  loss  how  to  explain 
the  phenomenon,  until  it  was  finally  discovered  to  be  occasioned  by  a 
new  river  havintr  broken  out  of  the  side  of  the  White  Mountains. 

When  this  river  issued  from  the  mountains,  in  October,  1775,  a  mixt- 
ure of  iron -ore  gave  the  water  a  deep  red  color,  and  this  singular,  and 
to  them  most  startling,  appearance  led  the  people  inhabiting  the  upper 
banks  of  the  Saco  to  declare  that  the  river  ran  blood  —  a  circumstance 
which  these  simple-minded  folk  regarded  as  of  evil  omen  for  the  success 
of  their  arms  in  the  struggle  then  going  on  between  the  Colonies  and 
Great  Britain.  Except  for  illustrating  a  marked  characteristic  the  inci- 
dent would  possess  little  importance.  Considerable  doubt  exists  as  to  the 
precise  course  of  this  New  River,  by  which  it  is  conjectured  that  the 
ascents   of  Cutler,  Boott,  Bigelow,  and  perhaps  others,  early  in  this  cen- 


154  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

tury,  were  made  to  tlie  summit  of  Mount  Washington.     But  this  is  merely 
conjecture.' 

After  Glen  Ellis  one  has  had  enough,  for  the  day  at  least,  of  water- 
falls and  cascade.  Its  excitement  is  strangely  infectious  and  exhilarat- 
ing. At  the  same  time,  it  casts  a  sweet  and  gentle  spell  over  the 
spirits.  If  he  be  wise,  the  visitor  will  not  exhaust  in  a  single  tour  of  the 
sun  the  pleasures  yet  in  store,  but,  after  a  fall,  try  a  ravine  or  a  moun- 
tain ascent,  thus  introducing  that  variety  which  is  the  spice  of  all  our 
pleasures. 

'  Peabody  River  is  said  to  have  originated  in  the  same  manner,  and  in  a  single  night.     It 
is  probable,  however,  that  as  long  as  there  has  been  a  valley  there  has  also  been  a  stream. 


A    SCRAMBLE     IN    TUCKERMAN'S.  155 


V. 

A    SCRAMBLE    IN     TUCKERMAN'S. 

The  crag  leaps  down,  and  over  it  the  flood : 
Know'st  thou  it,  then  ? 

'Tis  there!  'tis  there 
Our  way  runs.  .  .  .  Wilt  thou  go? — Goethe. 

AT  the  mountains  the  first  look  of  every  one  is  directed  to  the 
heavens,  not  in  silent  adoration  or  holy  meditation,  but  in  ear- 
nest scrutiny  of  the  weather.  For  here  the  weather  governs  with  ab- 
solute sway ;  and  nowhere  is  it  more  capricious.  Morning  and  even- 
ing skies  are,  therefore,  consulted  with  an  interest  the  varied  destinies 
of  the  day  may  be  supposed  to  suggest.  From  being  a  merely  conven- 
tional topic,  the  weather  becomes  one  of  the  first  importance,  and  such 
salutations  as  "  A  fine  day,"  or  "  A  nice  morning,"  are  in  less  danger  of 
being  coupled  with  a  wet  day  or  a  scowling  forenoon.  To  sum  up  the 
whole  question,  where  life  in  the  open  air  is  the  common  aim  of  all,  a 
rainy  day  is  a  day  lost,  and  everybody  knows  that  a  lost  day  can  never 
be  recovered.     Sun  worship  is,  therefore,  universal. 

The  prospect  being  duly  weighed  and  pronounced  good,  or  fair,  or 
fairly  good,  presto!  the  hotel  presents  a  scene  of  active  preparation. 
Anglers,  with  rod  and  basket,  betake  themselves  to  the  neighboring 
trout  brooks,  artists  to  the  woods  or  the  open.  Mountain  wagons  clat- 
ter up  to  the  door  with  an  exhilarating  spirit  and  dash.  Amid  much 
laugliter  and  cracking  of  jokes,  these  strong,  yet  slight -looking  vehicles 
are  speedily  filled  with  parties  for  the  summit,  the  Crystal  Cascade,  or 
Glen  Ellis ;  knots  of  pedestrians,  picturesquely  dressed,  move  off  with 
elastic  tread  for  some  long -meditated  climb  among  the  hills  or  in  the 
ravines ;  while  the  regular  stages  for  Gorham  or  Glen  Station  depart 
amid  hurried  and  hearty  leave-takings,  the  flutter  of  handkerchiefs,  and 
the  sharp  crack  of  the  driver's  whip.  Now  they  are  ofif,  and  quiet  settles 
once  more  upon  the  long  veranda. 


156  THE    HEART    OE    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

My  own  plans  included  a  trip  in  and  out  of  Tuckerman's  Ravine ; 
in  by  the  old  Thompson  path,  out  by  the  Crystal  Cascade.  It  is  neces- 
sary to  depart  a  little  from  the  order  of  time,  as  my  first  essay  (during 
the  first  week  of  May)  was  frustrated  by  the  deep  snows  then  effectu- 
ally blockading  the  way  above  Hermit  Lake.  The  following  July  found 
me  more  fortunate,  and  it  is  this  excursion  that  I  shall  now  lay  before 
the  reader  for  his  approval. 

I  chose  a  companion  to  whom  I  unfolded  the  scheme,  while  recon- 
noitring the  ravine  through  my  glass.  He  eagerly  embraced  my  pro- 
posal, declaring  his  readiness  to  start  on  the  instant.  Upon  a  hint  I  let 
fall  touching  his  ability  to  make  this  then  fatiguing  march,  he  observed, 
rather  stiffly,  "  I  went  through  one  Wilderness  with  Grant ;  guess  I  can 
through  this." 

"  Pack  your  knapsack,  then,  comrade,  and  you  shall  inscribe  '  Tuck- 
erman's '  along  with  Spottsylvania,  Cold  Harbor,  and  Petersburg." 

"  Bless  me !  is  it  so  very  tough  as  all  that }  No  matter,  give  me  five 
minutes  to  settle  my  affairs,  and  I'm  with  you." 

Let  us  improve  these  minutes  by  again  directing  the  glass  toward 
the  ravine. 

The  upper  section  of  this  remarkable  ravine  —  that  portion  lifted 
above  the  forest  line — is  finely  observed  from  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Crystal  Cascade,  but  from  the  Glen  House  the  curiously  distorted  rim 
and  vertical  wall  of  its  south  and  west  sides,  the  astonishing  crag  stand- 
ing sentinel  over  its  entrance,  may  be  viewed  at  full  leisure.  It  consti- 
tutes quite  too  important  a  feature  of  the  landscape  to  escape  notice. 
Dominated  by  the  towering  mass  of  the  Dome,  infolded  by  undulating 
slopes  descending  from  opposite  braces  of  Mount  Washington,  and  re- 
sembling gigantic  draperies,  we  see  an  enormous,  funnel-shaped,  hollow 
sunk  in  the  very  heart  of  the  mountain.  We  see,  also,  that  access  is 
feasible  only  from  the  north-east,  where  the  entrance  is  defended  by  the 
high  crag  spoken  of.  Behind  these  barriers,  graven  with  a  thousand 
lines  and  filled  with  a  thousand  shadows,  the  amphitheatre  lifts  its  for- 
midable walls  into  view. 

For  two  miles  our  plain  way  led  up  the  summit-road,  but  at  this  dis- 
tance, where  it  suddenly  changes  direction  to  the  right,  we  plunged  into 
the  forest.  Our  course  now  lay  onward  and  upward  o\er  what  had  at 
some  time  been  a  path — now  an  untrodden  one — encumbered  at  every 
few  rods  with  fallen  trees,  soaked  with  rain,  and  grown  up  with  moose- 


A     SCRAMBLE     IN    TUCK  E  R  MAN'S. 


157 


wood.     Time  and  again 
we    found   the   way 
barred   by  these   ex- 
asperating windfalls, 
and    their    thick    abalis    of 
l)ranches,  forcing   us   alter- 
nately to  go  down  on  all- 
fours  and  creep  underneath, 
or   to   mount   and  dismount, 
like    recruits,  on    the   wooden 
horse  of  a  cavalry  school. 

But  to  any  one  loving 
the  woods — and  this 


dav    I    loved    not 
wisclv,  but    too    well- 


^-x 


THE   PATH,  TUCKERMAN  S    RAVINE. 


:7-?^  ^      this  walk    is   something   to   be 
taken,  but  not  repeated,  for  fear 
of    impairing    the     first    and    most 
abiding    impressions.       One     cannot 
have  such  a  revelation  twice. 


158  THE     HEART    OF    THE     IVHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

I  recall  no  mountain -path  that  is  so  richly  diversified  with  all  the 
wildest  forms  of  mountain  beauty.  At  first  our  progress  through  primi- 
tive groves  of  pine,  hemlock,  and  birch  was  impeded  by  nothing  more 
remarkable  than  the  giant  trees  stretching  interminably,  rank  upon  rank, 
tier  upon  tier.  But  these  woods,  these  countless  gray  and  black  and 
white  trunks,  and  outspread  framework  of  branches,  supported  a  canopy 
of  thick  foliatie,  filled  with  voices  innumerable.  Somethins:  stirred  in 
the  top  of  a  lofty  pine ;  and  then,  like  an  alguazil  on  a  watch-tower,  a 
crow,  apparent  sentinel  of  all  the  feathered  colony,  rose  clumsily  on  his 
talons,  flapped  two  sable  wings,  and  thrice  hoarsely  challenged,  "  Caw ! 
caw !  caw !"  What  clamor,  what  a  liliputian  Babel  ensued !  Our  ears 
fairly  tingled  with  the  calls,  outcries,  and  objurgations  apparently  flung 
down  at  us  by  the  multitudinous  population  overhead.  Hark  to  the 
woodpecker's  rat -tat -tat,  the  partridges  mufifled  drum!  List  to  the 
bugle  of  the  wood-thrush,  sweet  and  clear!  Now  sounds  the  cat-bird's 
shrill  alarm,  the  owl's  hoot  of  indignant  surprise.  Then  the  squirrels, 
those  little  monkeys  of  our  northern  woods,  grated  their  teeth  sharply 
at  us,  and  let  fall  nuts  on  our  heads  as  we  passed  underneath.  Never 
were  visitors  more  unwelcome. 

Before  long  we  came  to  a  brook,  then  to  another.  Their  foaming 
waters  shot  past  like  a  herd  of  wild  horses.  These  we  crossed.  We 
now  began  to  thread  a  region  where  the  forest  was  more  open.  The 
moss  we  trampled  underfoot,  and  which  here  replaces  the  grass  of  the 
valleys,  was  beating  the  tallest  trees  in  the  race  for  the  mountain-top.  It 
was  the  old  story  of  the  tortoise  and  the  hare  over  again.  But  this 
moss:  have  you  ever  looked  at  it  before  your  heel  bruised  the  perfumed 
flowers  springing  from  its  velvet?  Here  are  tufts  exquisitely  decorated 
with  coral  lichens ;  here  the  violet  and  anemone  nestle  lovingly  to- 
gether; here  it  creeps  up  the  gray  trunks,  or  hides  the  bare  roots  of 
old  trees.  Tread  softly !  This  is  the  abode  of  elves  and  fairies.  Step 
lightly !  you  expect  to  hear  the  crushed  flowers  cry  out  with  pain. 

These  enchanting  spots,  where  stones  are  couches  and  trees  canopies, 
tempted  us  to  sit  down  on  a  cushioned  bowlder,  or  throw  ourselves 
upon  the  thick  carpet  into  which  we  sunk  ankle -deep  at  every  step. 
Even  the  bald,  gray  rocks  were  tapestried  with  mosses,  lichens,  and 
vines.  All  around,  under  the  thick  shade,  hundreds  of  enormous  trees 
lay  rotting;  yet  exquisitely  the  prostrate  trunks  were  overspread  with 
robes  of  softest  green,  effectually  concealing  the   repulsiveness,  the   sug- 


A     SCRAMBLE     IN    TUCKERMAN'S.  159 

gestions  of  decay.  Now  and  then  the  dead  tree  rose  into  new  life 
through  tlie  sturdy  roots  of  a  young  fir,  or  luxuriant,  plumed  ferns  grow- 
ing in  its  bark.  This  inexpressible  fecundity,  in  the  midst  of  inexpressi- 
ble wastefulness,  declared  that  for  Nature  there  is  no  such  thing  as  death. 
And  they  tell  us  the  day  of  miracles  has  passed!  Upon  this  dream  of 
elf-land  the  cool  morning  light  fell  in  oblique  streams  through  the  tree- 
trunks,  as  through  grated  windows,  filling  all  the  wood  with  a  subdued 
twilight  glimmer,  leaving  a  portion  of  its  own  gleams  on  the  moss-grown 
rocks,  while  the  trees  stretched  their  black  shadows  luxuriously  along  the 
thick-piled  sward,  like  weary  soldiers  in  a  bixouac. 

We  proceeded  thus  from  chamber  to  chamber,  and  from  cloister  to 
cloister,  at  times  descending  some  spur  of  the  mountain  into  a  deep- 
shaded  dell,  and  again  climbing  a  swift  and  miry  slope  to  better  ground, 
until  we  crossed  the  stream  coming  from  the  high  spur  spoken  of. 
From  here  the  ground  rapidly  rose  for  half  a  mile  more,  when  we  sud- 
denly came  out  of  the  low  firs  full  upon  the  Lion's  Head  crag,  rising 
above  Hermit  Lake,  and  visible  from  the  vicinity  of  the  Glei)  House. 
To  be  thus  unexpectedly  confronted  by  this  wall  of  imperishable  rock 
stirs  one  very  deeply.  For  the  moment  it  dominates  us,  even  as  it  does 
the  little  tarn  so  unconsciously  slumbering  at  its  feet.  It  is  horribly 
mutilated  and  defaced.  Its  sides  are  thickly  sowed  with  stunted  trees, 
that  bury  their  roots  in  its  cracks  and  rents  with  a  gripe  of  iron.  In 
effect  it  is  the  barbican  of  the  great  ravine.  Crouched  underneath,  by 
the  shore  of  the  lake,  is  a  matted  forest  of  firs  and  spruces,  dwindled 
to  half  their  usual  size,  grizzled  with  long  lichens,  and  occupying,  as  if 
by  stealth,  the  debatable  ground  between  life  and  death.  It  is,  in  fact, 
more  dead  than  alive.     Deeply  sunk  beneath  is  the  lake. 

Hermit  Lake  —  a  little  pool  nestling  underneath  a  precipice  —  de- 
mands a  word.  Its  solitary  state,  its  waters  green  and  profound,  and 
the  thick  shades  by  which  it  was  covered,  seemed  strangely  at  variance 
with  the  intense  activity  of  the  foaming  torrents  we  had  seen,  and  could 
still  hear  rushing  down  the  mountain.  It  was  too  small  for  a  lake,  or 
else  it  was  dwarfed  by  the  immense  mass  of  overshadowing  rock  tower- 
ing above  it,  whose  reflected  light  streamed  across  its  still  and  glossy 
surface.     Here  we  bid  farewell  to  the  forest. 

We  had  now  gained  a  commanding  post  of  observation,  though  there 
was  yet  rough  work  to  do.  We  saw  the  whole  magnificent  sweep  of  the 
ravine,  to  where  it  terminates  in  a  semicircle  of  stupendous  cliffs   that 


i6o 


THE     HEART    OE    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 


seem  hewn  perpendicularly  a  thousand  feet  down.  Lying  against  the 
western  wall  we  distinguished  patches  of  snow ;  but  they  appeared  of 
trifling  extent.  Great  wooded  mountain  slopes  stretched  away  from  the 
depths  of  the  gorge  on  either  side,  making  the  iron  lineaments  of  the 
iriant  cliffs  seem  harder  by  their  own  softness  and  delicacy.  Here  and 
there  these  exquisite  draperies  were  torn  in  long  rents  by  land-slips.  In 
the  west  arose  the  shattered  peak  of  Monroe  —  a  mass  of  splintered 
granite,  conspicuous   at   every  point   for   its   irreclaimable   deformity.      It 


lll.R.Mll     LAkl.. 


seemed  as  if  the  huge  open  maw  of  the  ravine  might  swallow  up  this 
peak  with  ease.  There  was  a  Dantesque  grandeur  and  solemnity  every- 
where. With  our  backs  against  the  trees,  we  watched  the  bellying  sails 
of  a  stray  cloud  which  intercepted  in  its  aerial  voyage  our  \iew  of  the 
great  summit;  but  it  soon  floated  away,  discovering  the  whitish -gray 
ledges  to  the  very  capstone  of  the  dome  itself.  Looking  down  and  over 
the  thick  woods  beyond,  we  met  again  the  burly  Carter  Mountains, 
pushed  backward  from  the  Pinkham  Notch,  and  kept  back  by  an  invisi- 
ble yet  colossal  strength. 


A    SCRAMBLE     IN    TUCKERMAN'S.  l6l 

From  Hermit  Lake  the  only  practicable  way  was  by  clambering  up 
the  bed  of  the  mountain  brook  that  falls  through  the  ravine.  The  whole 
expanse  that  stretched  on  either  side  was  a  chaos  of  shattered  granite, 
pitched  about  in  awful  confusion.  Path  there  was  none.  No  matter 
what  way  we  turned,  "  no  thorouarhfare  "  was  carved  in  stolid  stone.  We 
tried  to  force  a  passage  through  the  stunted  cedars  that  are  mistaken  at 
a  mile  for  greensward,  but  were  beaten  back,  torn  and  bleeding,  to  the 
brook.  We  then  turned  to  the  great  bowlders,  to  be  equally  buffeted 
and  abused,  and  finally  repulsed  upon  the  brook,  which  seemed  all  the 
while  mocking  our  efforts.  Once,  while  forcing  a  route,  inch  by  inch, 
through  the  scrub,  I  was  held  suspended  over  a  deep  crevice,  by  my  belt, 
until  extricated  b\-  my  comrade.  At  another  time  he  disappeared  to  the 
armpits  in  a  hole,  from  which  I  drew  him  like  a  blade  from  a  scabbard. 
At  this  moment  we  found  ourselves  unable  either  to  advance  or  retreat. 
The  dwarf  trees  squeezed  us  like  a  vise.  Who  would  have  thought 
there  was  so  much  life  in  them .-"  At  our  wits'  end,  we  looked  at  our 
bleeding  hands,  then  at  each  other.  The  brook  was  the  only  clew  to 
such  a  labvrinth,  and  to  it,  as  from  Scylla  to  Charybdis,  we  turned  as 
soon  as  we  recovered  breath.  But  to  reach  it  was  no  easy  matter;  we 
had  literally  to  cut  our  way  out  of  the  jungle. 

When  we  were  there,  and  had  rested  awhile  from  the  previous  severe 
exertions,  my  companion,  alternately  mopping  his  forehead  and  feeling 
his  bruises,  looked  up  with  a  quizzical  expression,  and  ejaculated,  "  Faith, 
I  am  almost  as  glad  to  get  out  of  this  wilderness  as  the  other!  In  anv 
case,"  he  gayly  added,  "  I  have  lost  the  most  blood  here ;  while  in  \'ir- 
ginia  I  did  not  receive  a  scratch." 

After  this  rude  initiation  into  the  mysteries  of  the  ravine,  we  ad- 
vanced directly  up  the  bed  of  the  brook.  But  the  brook  is  for  half  a 
mile  nothing  but  a  succession  of  leaps  and  plunges,  its  course  choked 
with  bowlders.  We  however  toiled  on,  from  rock  to  rock,  first  boosting, 
then  hoisting  each  other  up ;  one  moment  splashing  in  a  pool,  the  next 
halting  in  dismay  under  a  cascade,  which  we  must  either  mount  like  a 
chamois  or  ascend  like  a  trout.  The  climber  here  tastes  the  full  enjoy- 
ment of  an  encounter  with  untamed  nature,  which  calls  every  thew  and 
sinew  into  action.  At  length  the  stream  grew  narrower,  suddenly  di- 
vided, and  we  stood  at  the  mouth  of  the  Snow  Arch,  confronted  by  the 
vertical  'upper  wall  of  the  ravine. 

We  stood  in  an  arena  "  more  majestic  than  the  circus  of  a  Titus  or 


l62  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     M  OUNTAINS. 

a  Vespasian."  The  scene  was  one  of  awful  desolation.  A  little  way 
below  us  the  gorge  was  heaped  with  the  ruins  of  some  unrecorded  con- 
vulsion, by  which  the  precipice  had  been  cloven  from  base  to  summit, 
and  the  enormous  fragments  heaved  into  the  chasm  with  a  force  the 
imagination  is  powerless  to  conceive.  In  the  interstices  among  these 
blocks  rose  thickets  of  dwarf  cedars,  as  stiff  and  unyieldiiHg  as  the  livid 
rock  itself.  It  was  truly  an  arena  which  might  have  witnessed  the 
gladiatorial  combats  of  immortals. 

We  did  not  at  first  look  at  the  Snow  Arch.  The  eye  was  irresisti- 
bly fascinated  by  the  tremendous  mass  of  the  precipice  above.  From 
top  to  bottom  its  tawny  front  was  covered  with  countless  little  streams, 
that  clung  to  its  polished  wall  without  once  quitting  their  hold.  They 
twined  and  twisted  in  their  downward  course,  like  a  brood  of  young 
serpents  escaping  from  their  lair;  nor  could  I  banish  the  idea  of  the 
ghastly  head  of  a  Gorgon  clothed  with  tresses  of  serpents.  A  poetic 
imag;ination  has  named  this  tansfled  knot  of  mountain  rills,  "  The  fall  of 
a  thousand  streams."  At  the  foot  of  the  cliff  the  scattered  waters  unite, 
before  entering  the  Snow  Arch,  in  a  single  stream.  Turning  now  to 
the  right,  the  narrowing  gorge,  ascending  by  a  steep  slope  as  high  as 
the  upper  edge  of  the  precipice,  points  out  the  only  practicable  way  to 
the  summit  of  Mount  Washington  in  this  direction.  But  we  have  had 
enough  of  such  climbing,  for  one  day,  at  least. 

Partial  recovery  from  the  stupefaction  which  seizes  and  holds  one 
fast  is  doubtless  signalized  in  every  case  by  an  effort  to  account  for 
the  overwhelming  disaster  of  which  these  ruins  are  the  mute  yet  speak- 
ing evidence.  We  need  go  no  farther  in  the  search  than  the  innocent- 
looking  little  rills,  first  dripping  from  the  Alpine  mosses,  then  perco- 
lating through  the  rocks  of  the  high  plateau,  and  falling  over  its  edge 
in  a  thousand  streams.  Puny  as  they  look,  before  their  'inroads  the 
plateau  line  has  doubtless  receded,  like  the  great  wall  of  rock  over  which 
Niagara  pours  the  waters  of  four  seas.  With  their  combined  forces — 
how  long  ago  cannot  be  guessed ;  and  what,  indeed,  does  it  signify .'' — 
knitted  together  by  frost  into  Herculean  strength,  they  assailed  the 
granite  cliffs  that  were  older  than  the  sun,  older  than  the  moon  or  the 
stars,  mined  and  countermined  year  by  year,  inch  by  inch,  drop  by  drop, 
until — honey-combed,  riddled,  and  pierced  to  its  centre,  and  all  was  ready 
for  its  final  overthrow — winter  Q:ave  the  signal.  In  a  twinkling, 'viclding 
to   the   stroke,  and  shattered  into  a  thousand  fragments,  the  cliffs  laid 


A    SCRAMBLE     IN    TUCKERMAN'S. 


163 


their    haughty    heads 
low  in  the  dust.     After- 
ward  the    accumulated 

waters  tranquilly  continued  the  process     '^f.^O^-' 
of  demolition,  and  of  removino:  the  soil  ^ 

from  the  deep  excavation  they  had  made, 
until  the  floor  of  the  ravine  had  sunk  to 
its  present  level.  In  California  a  man 
with   a  hose  washes   away  mountains   to 

get  at  the  gold  deposits.     This  principle  of  hydraulic  force  is  borrowed, 
pure  and  simple,  from  a  mountain  cataract. 

Osgood,  the  experienced  guide,  who   had   visited   the   ravine    oftener 
than  anybody  else,  assured  me  that  never  within  his   remembrance  had 


SN'OW   ARCH,  TUCKERMAN  S   RAVINE. 


l64  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUXTAINS. 

this  forgotten  forgement  of  winter,  the  Snow  Arch,  been  seen  to  such 
advantage.  We  estimated  its  width  at  above  two  hundred  feet,  where 
it  threw  a  solid  bridge  of  ice  over  the  stream,  and  not  far  from  three 
hundred  in  its  greatest  length,  where  it  lay  along  the  sloj3e  of  the  gorge. 
Summer  and  winter  met  on  this  neutral  ground.  Entering  the  Arch 
was  joining  January  and  July  witli  a  step.  Flowers  blossomed  at  the 
threshold.  We  caught  water,  as  it  dripped  ice-cold  from  the  roof,  and 
pledged  Old  Winter  in  his  own  cellarage.  The  brook  foamed  at  our 
feet.  Looking  up,  there  was  a  pretty  picture  of  a  tiny  water-fall  pouring 
in  at  the  upper  end  and  out  at  the  ragged  portal  of  the  grotto.  But  I 
think  we  were  most  charmed  with  the  remarkable  sculpture  of  the  roof, 
whicli  was  a  groined  arch  fashioned  as  featly  as  was  ever  done  bv  hu- 
man hands.  What  the  stream  had  begun  in  secret  the  warm  vapors  had 
chiselled  with  a  bolder  hand,  but  not  altered.  As  it  was  formed,  so  it  re- 
mained— a  veritable  chajael  of  the  hills,  the  brook  droning  its  low,  mo- 
notonous chant,  and  the  dripping  roof  tinkling  its  refrain  unceasingl}*. 
If  the  interior  of  the  great  ravine  impressed  us  as  the  hidden  receptacle 
of  all  waste  matter,  this  lustrous  heap  of  snow,  so  insignificant  in  its  re- 
lation to  the  immensity  of  the  chasm  that  we  scarcely  looked  at  it  at 
first,  now  chased  away  the  feeling  of  mingled  terror  and  aversion  —  of 
having  stolen  unawares  into  the  one  forbidden  chamber — and  possessed 
us  with  a  sense  of  the  beautiful,  which  remained  long  after  its  glittering 
particles  had  melted  into  the  stream  that  flowed  beneath.  So  under  a 
cold  exterior  is  nourished  the  principle  of  undying  love,  which  the  aged 
mountain  gives  that  earth  may  forever  renew  her  fairest  youth. 

The  presence  of  this  miniature  glacier  is  a  very  simple  matter.  The 
fierce  winds  of  winter  which  sweep  over  the  plateau  whirl  the  snows 
before  them,  over  its  crest,  into  the  ravine,  where  they  are  lodged  at 
the  foot  of  the  precipice,  and  accumulate  to  a  great  depth.  As  soon  as 
released  by  spring,  the  little  streams,  falling  down  this  wall,  seek  their 
old  channels,  and,' being  warmer,  succeed  in  forcing  a  passage  through 
the  ice.  By  the  end  of  August  the  ice  usually  disappears,  though  it 
sometimes  remains  even  later. 

After  picking  up  some  fine  specimens  of  quartz,  sparkling  with  mica, 
and  uttering  a  parting  malediction  on  the  black  files  that  tormented  us, 
we  took  our  way  down  and  out  of  the  ravine,  following  the  general 
course  of  the  stream  along  its  steep  valley,  and,  after  an  uneventful 
march  of  two  hours,  reached  the  upper  waters  of  the  Crystal  Cascade. 


JN    AND    ABOUT    G  OR  HAM.  165 


VI. 

IN    AND    ABOUT    GORHAM. 

That  lonely  dwelling  stood  among  the  hills 
By  a  gray  mountain  stream. — Southey. 

AFTER  the  events  described  in  the  last  chapter,  I  continued,  like 
the  navigator  of  unknown  coasts,  my  tour  of  the  great  range. 
Half  a  mile  below  the  Glen  House,  the  Great  Gulf  discharges  from  its 
black  throat  the  little  river  rising  on  the  plateau  at  its  head.  The  head 
of  this  stupendous  abyss  is  a  mountain,  and  mountains  wall  it  in.  Its 
depths  remain  unexplored  e.xcept  l^y  an  occasional  angler  or  trapper. 

Two  and  a  half  miles  farther  on  a  road  diverges  to  the  left,  crosses 
the  Peabody  by  a  bridge,  and  stretches  on  over  a  depression  of  the  range 
to  Randolph,  where  it  intersects  the  great  route  from  Lancaster  and  Jef- 
ferson to  Gorham.  Over  the  ri\^er,  snugly  ensconced  at  the  foot  of 
Mount  Madison,  is  the  old  Copp  place.  Commanding,  as  it  does,  a  noble 
prospect  up  and  down  the  valley,  and  of  all  the  great  peaks  except 
Washington,  its  situation  is  most  inviting ;  more  than  this,  the  picture 
of  the  weather-stained  farm-house  nestling  among  these  sleeping  giants 
revives  in  fullest  vigor  our  preconceived  idea  of  life  in  the  mountains, 
already  shaken  by  the  balls,  routs,  and  grand  toilets  of  the  hotels.  The 
house,  as  we  see  by  Mistress  Dolly  Copp's  register,  has  been  known  to 
many  generations  of  tourists.  The  Copps  have  lived  here  about  half  a 
century. 

Travellers  going  up  or  down,  between  the  Glen  House  and  Gorham, 
usually  make  a  detour  as  far  as  Copp's,  in  order  to  view  the  Imp  to  bet- 
ter advantage  than  can  be  done  from  the  road.  Among  these  travellers 
some  have  now  and  then  knocked  at  the  door  and  demanded  to  see  the 
Imp.     The  hired  girl  invariably  requests  them  to  wait  until  she  can  call 

the  mistress. 

12* 


i66 


THE     HEART    OE     THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 


Directly  opposite   the  farm- 
house the  inclined  ridge  of  Imp 
Mountain  is  brol:en   down   per- 
pendicularly some  two  hundred 
feet,  leaving  a  jagged   cliff,  re- 
sembling an  immense  step,  fac- 
ing  up   the   valley.      This   is   a 
mountain   of  the    Carter  chain, 
sloping    gradually    toward    the 
(jlen    House.      Upon   this   cliff, 
or  this  step,  is  the  distorted  hu- 
man   profile    which    gives    the 
mountain   its  name.     A  strong, 
clear  licjht  behind  it  is  necessary 
to  bring  out  all  the  features,  the 
mouth  especially,  in  bold  relief 
against  the  .sky,  when  the  expres- 
sion is  certainly  almost  diabolical. 
One  imajjines  that  some  goblin, 
imprisoned  for  ages  within  the 
mountain,   and    suddenly    liber- 
ated by  an  earthquake,  e.xhibits 
its     hideous     countenance,    still 
wearing  the  same  look   it  wore 
at  the  moment  it  was  entombed 
in    its    mask    of    granite.      The 
forenoon  is  the  best  time, 
and    the    road,  a    few- 
rods    back    from    the 
p^,       house,  the     best    point 
^     from  which  to  see  it. 
The  coal-black  face  is 
then  in  shadow. 

The    Copp  farm-house 
has  a  tale  of  its  own,  illustrating 
in  a  remarkable  manner  the  amount  of  phy- 
sical hardship  that  long  training,  and  familiarity  with  rough  out- 
of-door  life,  will  occasionallv  enable  men  to  endure.     -Seeing  two  men  in 


IN    AND     ABOUT    G  O  R  H  A  M .  1 67 

the  door-yard,  I  sat  down  on  the  chopping-block,  and  entered  into  con- 
versation with  them. 

By  the  time  I  had  taken  out  my  note-book  I  had  all  the  members  of 
the  household  and  all  the  inmates  of  the  barn-yard  around  me.  I  might 
add  that  all  were  talking  at  once.  The  matron  stood  in  the  door-way, 
which  her  ample  figure  quite  filled,  trifling  with  the  beads  of  a  gold 
necklace.  A  younger  face  stared  out  over  her  shoulder;  while  an  old 
man,  whose  countenance  had  hardened  into  a  vacant  smile,  and  one  of 
forty  or  thereabouts,  alternately  passed  my  glass  one  to  the  other,  with  an 
astonishment  similar  to  that  displayed  by  Friday  when  he  first  looked 
through  Crusoe's  telescope. 

"  Which  of  you  is  named  Nathaniel  Copp  T'  I  asked,  after  they  had 
satisfied  their  curiosity. 

"  That  is  my  name,"  the  younger  very  deliberately  responded. 
"  Really,"  thought  I,  "  there  is  little  enough  of  the  conventional  hero  in 
that  face ;"  therefore  I  again  asked,  '•  Are  you  the  same  Nathaniel  Copp 
who  was  lost  while  hunting  in  the  mountains,  let  me  see,  about  twenty- 
five  years  ago  ?" 

"  Yes ;  but  I  wasn't  lost  after  I  got  down  to  Wild  River,"  he  hastily 
rejoined,  like  a  man  who  has  a  reputation  to  defend. 

"  Tell  me  about  it,  will  you  ?" 

I  take  from  my  note-book  the  following  relation  of  the  exploit  of  this 
mountain  Nimrod,  as  I  received  it  on  the  spot.  But  I  had  literally  to 
draw  it  out  of  him,  a  syllable  at  a  time. 

On  the  last  day  of  January,  1S55,  Nathaniel  Copp,  son  of  Hayes  D. 
Copp,  of  Pinkham's  Grant,  near  the  Glen  House,  set  out  from  home 
on  a  deer  hunt,  and  was  out  four  successive  days.  On  the  fifth  day  he 
again  left  to  look  for  a  deer  killed  the  previous  day,  about  eight  miles 
from  home.  Having  found  it,  he  dragged  the  carcass  (weighing  two  hun- 
dred and  thirty  pounds)  home  through  the  snow,  and  at  one  o'clock  p.m. 
started  for  another  he  had  tracked  near  the  place  where  the  former  was 
killed,  which  he  followed  until  he  lost  the  track,  at  dark.  He  then  found 
that  he  had  lost  his  own  way,  and  should,  in  all  probability,  be  obliged 
to  spend  the  night  in  the  woods,  with  the  temperature  ranging  from  32° 
to  35^  below  zero. 

Knowing  that  to  remain  quiet  was  certain  death,'  and  having  nothing 
with  which  to  light  a  fire,  the  hunter  began  walking  for  his  life.  The 
moon  shone  out  bright  and  clear,  making  the  cold  seem  even  more  in- 


l68  THE     HEART     OF     THE      WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

tense.  While  revolving  in  his  mind  his  unpleasant  predicament  he  heard 
a  deer  bleat.  He  gave  chase,  and  easily  overtook  it.  The  snow  was 
too  deep  for  the  animal  to  escape  from  a  liunter  on  snow-shoes.  Copp 
leaped  upon  his  back,  and  despatched  him  with  his  hunting-knife.  He 
then  dressed  him,  and,  taking  out  the  heart,  put  it  in  his  pocket,  not  for 
a  trophy,  but,  as  he  told  me,  to  keep  starvation  at  arms -length.  The 
excitement  of  the  chase  made  him  forget  cold  until  he  perceived  himself 
growing  benumbed.  Rousing  himself,  he  again  pushed  on,  whither  he 
knew  not,  but  spurred  by  the  instinct  of  self-preservation.  Daylight 
found  him  still  striding  on,  with  no  clew  to  a  way  out  of  the  thick  woods, 
which  imprisoned  him  on  every  side.  At  length,  at  ten  in  the  morning, 
he  came  out  at  or  near  Wild  River,  in  Gilead,  forty  miles  from  home, 
having  walked  twenty  one  consecutive  hours  witliout  rest  or  food,  the 
greater  part  of  the  time  through  a  tangled  growth  of  underbrush. 

His  friends  at  home  becoming  alarmed  at  his  prolonged  absence 
during  such  freezing  weather,  three  of  them,  Hayes  D.  Copp,  his  father, 
John  Goulding,  and  Thomas  Culhane,  started  in  search  of  him.  They 
followed  his  track  until  it  was  lost  in  the  darkness,  and,  by  the  aid  of 
their  dog,  found  the  deer  which  young  Copp  had  killed  and  dressed. 
They  again  started  on  the  trail,  but  with  the  faintest  hope  of  ever  find- 
ing the  lost  man  alive,  and,  after  being  out  twenty-si.\  hours  in  the  ex- 
treme cold,  found  the  object  of  their  search. 

No  words  can  do  justice  to  the  heroic  self-denial  and  fortitude  with 
which  these  men  continued  an  almost  hopeless  search,  when  every  mo- 
ment expecting  to  find  the  stiffened  corpse  of  their  friend.  Goulding 
froze  both  feet ;  the  others  their  ears. 

When  found,  young  Copp  did  not  seem  to  realize  in  the  least  the 
great  danger  through  which  he  had  passed,  and  talked  with  perfect  un- 
concern of  hunts  that  he  had  planned  for  the  next  week.  One  of  his 
feet  was  so  badly  frozen,  from  the  effect  of  too  tightly  lacing  his  snow- 
shoe,  that  the  toes  had  to  be  amputated. 

Until  reaching  the  bridge,  within  two  miles  of  Gorham,  I  saw  no 
one,  heard  nothing  except  the  strokes  of  an  axe,  borne  on  the  still  air 
from  some  logging-camp,  twittering  birds,  or  chattering  river.  Ascend- 
ing the  hill  above  the  bridge,  I  took  my  last  look  back  at  Mount  Wash- 
ington, over  whose  head  rose-tinted  clouds  hung  in  graceful  folds.  The 
summit  was  beautifully  distinct.  The  bases  of  all  the  mountains  were 
floating  in   that   delicious   blue   haze,  enrapturing  to    the    artist,  exasper- 


IN   AND    ABOUT    GORHAM.  169 

ating  to  the  climber.  Turning  to  my  route,  I  had  before  me  the  village 
of  Gorham,  with  the  long  slopes  of  Mount  Hayes  meeting  in  a  regular 
pyramid  behind  it.  Against  the  dusky  wall  of  the  mountain  one  white 
spire  stood  out  clean  and  sharp.  At  my  right,  along  the  river,  was  a 
cluster  of  saw-mills,  sheds,  and  shanties;  beyond,  an  irregular  line  of 
forest  concealing  the  town  —  all  except  the  steeple;  beyond  that  the 
mountain.  .'\s  I  entered  the  village,  the  shrill  scream  of  a  locomotive 
pierced  the  still  air,  and,  like  the  horn  of  Ernani,  broke  my  dream  of 
forgetfulness  with  its  fatal  blast.  Adieu,  dreams  of  delusion !  we  are 
once  more  manacled  with  the  city. 

I  loitered  along  the  river  road,  hoping,  as  the  sky  was  clear,  to  see 
the  sun  go  down  on  the  great  summits.  Nor  was  I  disappointed.  As 
I  walked  on,  Madison,  the  superb,  gradually  drew  out  of  the  Peabody 
Glen,  and  soon  Washington  came  into  line  over  the  ridge  of  Moriah, 
whose  highest  precipices  were  kindled  with  a  ruddy  glow,  while  a  won- 
derful white  light  rested,  like  a  halo,  on  the  brow  of  the  monarch.  Of  a 
sudden,  the  crest  of  Moriah  paled,  then  grew  dark ;  night  rose  from  the 
black  glen,  twilight  descended  from  the  dusky  heavens.  For  an  instant 
the  humps  of  Clay  reddened  in  the  afterglow.  Then  the  light  went  out, 
and  I  saw  only  the  towering  forms  of  the  giant  mountains  dimly  traced 
upon  the  sky.  A  star  fell.  At  this  signal  the  great  dome  sparkled  with 
myriad  lights.     Night  had  ascended  her  mountain  throne. 

Gorham  is  situated  on  the  Grand  Trunk  Railway,  between  Paris  and 
Berlin,  with  Milan  just  beyond  —  names  a  trifle  ambitious  for  villages 
with  the  bark  on,  but  conferring  distinction  upon  half  a  hundred  other- 
wise obscure  villages  scattered  from  Maine  to  California. 

Gorham  is  also  situated  in  one  of  those  natural  parks,  called  inter- 
vales, in  an  amphitheatre  of  hills,  through  which  the  Androscoggin 
flows  with  a  strong,  steady  tide.  The  left  bank  is  appropriated  by 
Mount  Hayes,  the  right  by  the  village  —  a  suspension  bridge  giving 
access  from  one  to  the  other.  This  mountain  rises  abruptly  from  the 
river  to  a  broad  summit-plateau,  from  which  a  wide  and  brilliant  pros- 
pect rewards  the  climber.  The  central  portion  of  Gorham  is  getting  to 
be  much  too  busy  for  that  rest  and  quietude  which  is  so  greatly  desired 
by  a  large  class  of  travellers  to  the  mountains,  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
its  position  with  respect  to  the  highest  summits  is  more  advantageous 
than  that  of  any  other  town  lying  on  the  skirts  of  the  mountains,  and 
accessible    by   railway.      In    one    hour  the    tourist    can   be   at   the    Glen 


170  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

House,  in  three  on  the  summit  of  Mount  Washington.  Being  at  the 
very  end  of  the  great  chain,  in  the  angle  -where  its  last  elevation  abuts 
on  the  Androscoggin,  the  valley  conducting  around  the  northerly  side 
of  the  great  eminences,  through  the  settlements  of  Randolph  and  Jeffer- 
son, furnishes  another  and  a  charming  avenue  of  travel  into  the  region 
watered  by  the  Connecticut.  As  the  great  tide  of  travel  flows  in  from 
the  west  and  south,  Gorham  has  profited  little  by  the  extension  of  rail- 
ways furnishing  more  direct  communication  with  the  heart  of  the 
mountains. 

Mount  Hayes  is  the  guardian  of  the  village,  erecting  its  rocky  ram- 
part over  it,  like  the  precipices  of  Cape  Diamond  over  Quebec.  The 
hill  in  front  is  called  Pine  Mountain,  though  it  is  only  a  mountain  by 
brevet.  The  tip  of  the  peak  of  Madison  peers  clown  into  the  village 
over  this  hill.  I  plainly  saw  the  snow  up  there  from  my  window.  To 
the  left,  and  over  the  low  slope  of  Pine  Mountain,  rise  the  Carter  sum- 
mits, which  here  make  a  remarkably  imposing  background  to  the  pict- 
ure, and  in  conjunction  with  the  great  range  form  the  basin  of  the  Pea- 
body.  I  saw  this  stream,  making  its  final  exit  from  the  mountains, 
throw  itself  exhausted  with  its  rapid  course  into  the  Androscoggin,  half 
a  mile  below  the  hotel.  North-west  of  the  village  street,  drawn  up  in 
line  across  the  valley,  extend  the  Pilot  peaks. 

The  Carter  group  is  said  to  have  been  named  after  a  hunter.  .\c- 
cording  to  Farmer,  the  Pilot  Mountains  were  so  called  from  a  dos:. 
Willard,  a  hunter,  had  been  lost  two  or  three  days  on  these  mountains, 
on  the  east  side  of  which  his  camp  was  situated.  Every  day  he  ob- 
served that  Pilot,  his  dog,  regularly  left  him,  as  he  supposed  in  search 
of  game ;  but  toward  nightfall  would  as  regularly  return  to  his  master. 
This  at  length  excited  the  attention  of  the  hunter,  who,  when  nearly 
exhausted  with  fatigue  and  hunger,  decided  to  commit  himself  to  the 
guidance  of  Pilot,  and  in  a  short  time  was  conducted  by  the  intelligent 
animal  in  safety  to  his  camp. 

My  first  morning  at  Gorham  was  a  beautiful  one,  and  I  prepared  to 
improve  it  to  the  utmost  by  a  walk  around  the  northern  base  of  Madi- 
son, neither  knowing  nor  caring  whither  it  might  lead  me.  Spring  was 
in  her  most  enchanting  mood.  A  few  steps,  and  I  was  amid  the  marvels 
of  a  new  creation,  the  tassclled  birches,  the  downy  willows,  the  oaks  in 
gosling-gray.  Even  the  gnarled  and  withered  apple-trees  gave  promise 
of  blossoming,  and  the  voung  ferns,  pushing  aside  the  dead  leaves,  came 


IN    AND     ABOUT    G  OR  HAM.  171 

forth  with  their  tiny  fists  doubled  for  the  battle  of  life.  Why  did  not 
Nature  so  order  it  that  mankind  might  rest  like  the  trees,  or  shall  we, 
like  them,  come  forth  at  last  strong,  vigorous,  beautiful,  from  that  long 
refreshing  slumber  ? 

Leavine  the  village,  at  the  end  of  a  mile  and  a  half  I  took  the  road 
turning  to  the  left,  where  Moose  River  falls  into  the  Androscoggin,  at 
the  point  where  the  latter,  making  a  remarkable  bend,  turns  sharply 
away  to  the  north.  Moose  River  is  a  true  mountain  stream,  clear  and 
limpid,  foaming  along  a  bed  of  sand  and  pebbles. 

From  this  spot  the  whole  extent  of  the  Pilot  range  was  unrolled  at 
my  right,  while  at  the  left,  majestic  among  the  lower  hills,  Madison  and 
Adams  were  massed  in  one  grand  pyramid.  The  snows  glistening  on 
the  summits  seemed  trophies  torn  from  winter. 

About  a  mile  from  the  turning,  at  Lary's,  I  found  the  best  station  for 
viewing  the  statuesque  proportions  of  Madison.  The  foreground  a  swift 
mountain  stream,  white  as  the  snows  where  it  takes  its  rise.  Beyond,  a 
strip  of  meadow  land,  covered  with  young  birches  and  poplars,  just  show- 
ing their  tender,  trembling  foliage.  Among  these  are  scattered  large, 
dead  trees,  relics  of  the  primeval  forest ;  the  middle .  ground  a  young 
forest,  showing  in  its  dainty  wicker-work  of  branchlets  that  beady  ap- 
pearance which  belongs  to  spring  alone,  and  is  so  exquisitely  beautiful. 
Above  this  ascends,  mile  upon  mile,  the  enormous  bulk  of  the  mountain, 
ashen-gray  at  the  summit,  dusky  olive-green  below.  Stark  precipices, 
hedged  about  with  blasted  pines,  and  seamed  with  snow,  capped  the  great 
pile.  Over  this  a  pale  azure,  deepening  in  intensity  toward  the  zenith, 
unrolled  its  magnificent  drapery. 

After  the  ascent  of  Mount  Hayes,  which  Mr.  King  has  fittingly  de- 
scribed as  "  the  chair  set  by  the  Creator  at  the  proper  distance  and  angle 
to  appreciate  and  enjoy  "  the  kingly  prominence  of  Mount  Washington, 
the  two  things  best  worth  seeing  in  the  neighborhood  are  the  falls  of 
the  Androscoggin  at  Berlin,  and  the  beautiful  view  of  the  loftiest  of 
the  White  Mountain  peaks  from  what  is  called  here  the  Lead  Mine 
Bridge.  To  get  to  the  falls  you  must  ascend  the  river,  and  to  obtain 
the  view  you  must  descend  a  few  miles.  I  consecrated  a  day  to  this 
excursion. 

With  a  head  already  filled  with  the  noise  of  half  a  hundred  mountain 
torrents,  water -falls,  or  cascades,  I  set  out  after  breakfast  for  Berlin 
Falls,  feeling  that  the  passage  of  a  body  of  water  such  as  the  Andros- 


172  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAIXS. 

coggin  is  at  Gorham,  through  a  narrow  gorge,  must  be  something  differ- 
ent from  the  common. 

A  word  about  Berlin.  Its  situation  is  far  more  picturesque  than  that 
of  Gorham.  There  is  the  same  environment  of  mountains,  and,  in  addi- 
tion to  the  falls,  a  magnificent  view  of  Madison,  Adams,  Jefferson,  and  of 
the  Carter  range.  The  precipices  of  Mount  Forist,  which  o\-erhang"  rail- 
way and  village,  are  noticeable  among  a  thousand.  Here  Dead  River 
falls  into  the  Androscoggin,  and  here  the  Grand  Trunk  Railway,  taking 
leave  of  this  river,  turns  to  the  north-west,  crosses  over  to  the  Upper  Am- 
monoosuc,  twists  and  twines  along  with  it  among  the  northern  moun- 
tains, and  at  last  emerges  upon  the  level  meadows  of  the  Connecticut. 

Berlin  has  another  aspect.  Lumber  is  its  business ;  lumber  its  staple 
of  conversation;  people  go  to  bed  to  dream  of  lumber.  In  a  word,  lum- 
ber is  everywhere.  The  lumberman  admires  a  tree  in  his  way  quite  as 
much  as  you  or  I.  No  eye  like  his  to  estimate  its  height,  its  girth,  its 
thickness.  But  as  ships  to  Shylock,  so  trees  to  him  are  naught  but 
boards — so  many  feet.  So  that  there  is  something  almost  ferocious  in 
the  lumberman's  or  mill -owner's  admiration  for  the  forest;  something 
almost  startling  in  the  idea  that  this  out-of-the-way  corner  is  devouring 
the  forests  at  the  rate  of  twenty  car-loads  a  day.  In  plain  language,  this 
village  cuts  up  a  good-sized  grove  every  day,  and  rejoices  over  it  with  a 
new  house  or  a  new  barn. 

At  the  risk  of  being  classed  with  the  sentimental  and  the  unpractical, 
every  one  who  is  alive  to  the  consequences  of  converting  our  forests  into 
deserts,  or  worse  than  deserts,  should  raise  a  voice  of  warning  against 
this  wholesale  destruction.  The  consequences  may  be  remote,  but  they 
are  certain.  For  the  most  part,  the  travelled  routes  have  long  since  been 
stripped  of  their  valuable  timber  trees.  Now  the  mills  are  fast  eating 
their  way  into  the  hitherto  inaccessible  regions,  leaving  a  track  of  deso- 
lation behind  wherever  they  go,  like  that  of  a  destroying  army.  What 
cannot  be  carried  away  is  burnt.  Fires  are  seen  blazing  by  the  side  of 
every  saw-mill,  in  which  all  the  waste  material  is  carefully  consumed.  A 
trifle .''  Enough  is  consumed  every  year  in  this  way  to  furnish  the  great 
city  of  New  York  with  its  fuel.  I  speak  with  moderation.  Not  a  vil- 
lase  but  has  its  saw-mills;  while  at  Whitefield,  Bethlehem,  Livermore, 
Low,  and  Burbank's  Grant,  and  many  other  localities,  the  havoc  is 
frightful.  Forest  fires,  originating  chiefly  in  the  logging -camps,  annu- 
ally desolate  leagues  of  forest  land.     How  long  is  this  to  continue? 


IN    AND    ABOUT    G  OR  HAM.  1 73 

The  mountain  labors  incessantly  to  re-create,  but  what  can  it  do 
against  such  fearful  odds  ?  and  what  shall  we  do  when  it  can  no  longer 
furnish  pine  to  build  our  homes,  or  wood  to  warm  them?  Delve  deeper 
and  deeper  under  the  Alleghanies  ?  In  about  two  hundred  and  fifty 
years  the  noble  forests,  which  set  the  early  discoverers  wild  with  enthu- 
siasm, have  been  steadily  driven  farther  and  farther  back  into  the  inte- 
rior, until  "the  forest  primeval"  exists  not  nearer  than  a  hundred  miles 
inland.  Then  the  great  northern  wilderness  began  at  the  sea-coast.  It 
is  now  in  the  vicinity  of  Lake  Umbagog.  Still  the  warfare  goes  on.  I 
do  not  call  occasional  bunches  of  wood  forests.  All  this  means  less  and 
less  moisture ;  consequently,  more  and  more  drouth.  The  tree  draws  the 
cloud  from  heaven,  and  bestows  it  on  the  earth.  The  summer  of  1880 
was  one  of  almost  unexampled  dryness.  Large  rivers  dwindled  to  piti- 
ful rivulets,  brooks  were  dried  up,  and  the  beautiful  cascades  in  many 
instances  wholly  disappeared.  The  State  is  powerless  to  interfere.  Not 
so  individuals,  or  combinations  of  individuals  for  the  preservation  of 
such  tracts  of  woodland  as  the  noble  Cathedral  woods  of  North  Con- 
way. In  the  West  a  man  who  plants  a  tree  is  a  public  benefactor;  is  he 
who  saves  the  life  of  one  in  the  East  less  so.''  America,  says  Berthold 
Auerbach,  is  no  longer  "  the  Promised  Land  for  the  Old  World ;"  if  she 
does  not  protect  her  woods,  she  will  become  "  waste  and  dry,"  like  the 
Promised  Land  of  the  ancients — Palestine  itself.  Look  on  this  picture 
of  Michelet: 

"  On  the  shores  of  the  Caspian,  for  three  or  four  hundred  leagues, 
one  sees  nothing,  one  encounters  nothing,  but  midway  an  isolated  and 
solitary  tree.  It  is  the  love  and  worship  of  every  passing  wayfarer. 
Each  one  offers  it  something ;  and  the  very  Tartar,  in  default  of  every 
other  sift,  will  snatch  a  hair  from  his  beard  or  his  horse's  mane." 

The  season  when  the  great  movement  of  lumber  from  the  northern 
wilderness  to  the  sea  begins  is  one  of  great  activity.  The  logs  are 
floated  down  the  Androscoggin  from  Lake  Umbagog  with  the  spring 
freshets,  when  those  destined  to  go  farther  are  "  driven,"  as  the  lumber- 
men's phrase  is,  over  the  falls  and  through  the  rapids  here,  to  be  picked 
up  below.  It  may  well  be  believed  that  the  passage  of  the  falls  by  a 
"  drive  "  is  a  sight  worth  witnessing.  Sometimes  the  logs  get  so  tightly 
jammed  in  the  narrow  gorge  of  the  river  tliat  it  seems  impossible  to  ex- 
tricate them  ;  but  the  dam  they  form  causes  the  river  to  rise  behind  it, 
when  the  accumulated  and  pent-up  waters  force  their  way  through  the 


174  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

obstruction,  tossing  huge  logs  in  the  air  as  if  they  were  straws.  A 
squad  of  lumbermen  —  tough,  muscular,  handy  fellows  they  are  —  ac- 
companies each  drive,  just  as  vaqueros  do  a  Texan  herd ;  and  the 
herd  of  logs,  like  the  herd  of  cattle,  is  branded  with  the  owners  mark. 
After  making  the  drive  of  the  falls,  the  men  move  down  below  them, 
where  they  find  active  and,  so  far  as  appearance  goes,  dangerous  work 
in  disentangling  the  snarls  of  logs  caught  among  the  rocks  of  the  rapids. 
Against  a  current  no  ordinary  boat  could  stem  for  a  moment ;  they  dart 
hither  and  thither  in  their  light  bateaux,  as  the  herdsman  does  on  his 
active  little  mustang.  If  a  log  grounds  in  the  midst  of  the  rapids,  the 
bateaux  dashes  toward  it.  One  river-driver  jumps  upon  it,  and  holds  the 
boat  fast,  while  another  grapples  it  with  a  powerful  lever  called  a  cant- 
dog.  In  a  moment  the  log  rolls  off  the  rocks  with  a  loud  splash,  and 
is  hurried  away  by  the  rapid  tide. 

During  the  drive  the  lumberman  is  almost  always  wet  to  the  skin, 
day  in  and  day  out.  When  a  raft  of  logs  is  first  started  in  the  spring 
the  men  suffer  from  the  exposure ;  but  after  a  little  time  the  work 
seems  to  toughen  and  harden  them,  so  that  they  do  not  in  the  least 
mind  the  amphibious  life  they  are  forced  to  lead.  Rain  or  shine,  they 
get  to  their  work  at  five  in  the  morning,  leaving  it  only  when  it  is  too 
dark  to  see  longer.  Each  squad  —  for  the  whole  force  is  divided  into 
what  may  be  called  skirmishers,  advanced -guards,  main  body,  and  rear- 
guard, each  having  its  appointed  work  to  perform  —  then  repairs  to  its 
camp,  which  is  generally  a  tent  pitched  near  the  river,  where  the'  cook 
is  waiting  for  their  arrival  with  a  hot  supper  of  fried  doughnuts  and 
baked  beans — the  lumberman's  diet  of  preference.  They  pass  the  even- 
ing playing  euchre,  telling  stories,  or  relating  the  experiences  of  the 
day,  and  are  as  simple,  hearty,  happy-go-lucky  fellows  as  can  be  found 
in  the  wide  world. 

To  say  that  the  Berlin  Falls  begin  two  miles  below  the  village  is  no 
more  than  the  truth,  since  at  this  distance  the  river  was  sheeted  in  foam 
from  shore  to  shore.  For  these  two  miles  its  bed  is  so  thickly  sown 
with  rt)cks  that  it  is  like  a  river  stretched  on  the  rack.  The  whole  river, 
every  drop  of  it,  is  hemmed  in  by  enormous  masses  of  granite,  forming 
a  long,  narrow,  and  rocky  gorge,  down  which  it  bursts  in  one  mad 
plunge,  tossing  and  roaring  like  the  Maelstrom.  What  fury !  What 
force  !  The  solid  earth  shakes,  and  the  very  air  trembles.  It  is  a  sat- 
urnalia.    A  whirlwind  of  passion,  swift,  uncontrollable,  and  terrible. 


IN  AND    ABOUT    G  OR  HAM.  1 75 

The  best  situation  I  could  find  was  upon  a  jutting  ledge  below  the 
little  foot-bridge  thrown  from  rt)ck  to  rock.  Several  turns  in  the  long 
course  of  the  cataract  prevent  its  whole  extent  being  seen  all  at  once ; 
but  it  starts  up  hither  and  thither  among  the  rocks,  boiling  with  rage  at 
being  so  continually  hindered  in  its  free  course,  until,  at  last,  madness 
seizes  it,  and,  flying  straight  at  the  throat  of  the  gorge,  it  goes  down  in 
one  long  white  wave,  overwhelming  everything  in  its  way.  It  reaches 
the  foot  of  the  rocks  in  fleeces,  darts  wildly  hither  and  thither,  shakes 
off  the  grasp  of  concealed  rocks,  and,  racing  on,  stretches  itself  on  its 
wide  and  shallow  bed,  uttering  a  tremulous  wail. 

From  the  village  at  the  falls,  and  from  Berlin  Mills,  are  elevations 
from  which  the  great  White  Mountains  are  grandly  conspicuous.  The 
view  is  similar  to  that  much  extolled  one  from  Milan,  the  town  next  to 
Berlin.  Here  the  three  great  mountains,  closed  in  mass,  display  a  triple 
crown  of  peaks,  Washington  being  thrown  back  to  the  left,  and  behind 
Madison,  with  Adams  on  his  right.  Best  of  all  is  the  blended  effect  of 
early  morning,  or  of  the  afterglow,  when  a  few  light  clouds  sail  along 
the  crimson  sky,  and  their  shadows  play  hide-and-seek  on  the  mountain 
sides. 

In  the  afternoon,  while  walking  down  the  road  to  Shelburne,  I  met 
an  apparently  honest  farmer,  with  whom  I  held  some  discourse.  He 
was  curious  about  the  great  city  he  had  known  half  a  century  before, 
when  it  was  in  swaddling  clothes ;  I  about  the  mountains  above  and 
around  us,  that  had  never  known  change  since  the  world  began.  An 
amiable  contest  ensued,  in  which  each  tried  to  lead  the  other  to  talk  of 
the  topic  most  interesting  to  himself.  The  husbandman  grew  eloquent 
upon  his  native  State  and  its  great  man.  "  But  what,"  I  insisted,  "  do 
you  think  of  your  greatest  mountain  there  V  pointing  to  the  splendid 
peak. 

"  Oh,  drat  the  mountains !  I  never  look  at  'em.  Ask  the  old 
woman." 

Some  enticintr  views  mav  be  had  from  the  Shelburne  intervales, 
embracing  Madison  on  the  right,  and  Washington  on  the  left.  It  is, 
therefore,  permitted  to  steal  an  occasional  look  back  until  we  reach  the 
Lead  Mine  Bridge,  and  stand  over  the  middle  of  the  flashing  Andros- 
coggin. 

The  dimpled  river,  broad  here,  and  showing  tufts  of  foliage  on  its 
satin   surface,  recedes    between  wooded   banks    to   the    middle    distance, 


176 


THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 


where  it  disappears.  Swaying  to  and  fro,  without  noise,  the  lithe  and 
slender  willows  on  the  margin  continually  dipped  their  budding  twigs 
in  the  stream,  as  if  to  show  its  clear  transparency,  while  letting  fall,  drop 
by  drop,  its  crystal  globules.  They  gently  nodded  their  green  heads, 
keeping  time  to  the  low  music  of  the  river. 

Beyond  the  river,  over  gently  meeting  slopes  of  the  valley,  two  mag- 
nificent  shapes,  Washington    and    Madison,  rose  grandly.      Those    truly 


THE    ANDROSCOGGIN    AT    SHELBURNE. 


regal  summits  still  wore  their  winter  ermine.  They  were  drawn  so 
widely  apart  as  to  show  the  familiar  peaks  of  Mount  Clay  protruding 
between  them.  It  is  hardly  possible  to  imagine  a  more  beautiful  pict- 
ure of  mountain  scenery.  Noble  river,  hoary  summits,  blanched  preci- 
pices, over  whose  haggard  visages  a  little  color  was  beginning  to  steal, 
eloquently  appealed  to  every  perception  of  the  beautiful  and  the  sublime. 
Much  as  the  view  from  this  point  is  extolled,  it  can  hardly  be  over- 
praised. True,  it  exhibits  the  same  objects  that  we  see  from  Berlin  and 
Milan ;  but  the  order  of  arrangement  is  not  only  reversed,  but  so  altered 
as  to  render  any  comparison  impossible.  In  this  connection  it  may  be 
remarked  that  a  short  removal  usually  changes  the  whole  character  of 
a  mountain  landscape.     No  two  are  precisely  alike. 

The  annals  of  Shelburne,  which  originally  included  Gorham  within  its 
limits,  are  suiificiently  meagre ;  but  they  furnish  the  same  story  of  struggle 


IN   AND    ABOUT    GORHAM.  177 

with  hardship — often  with  danger — common  to  the  early  settlements  in 
this  region.  Shelburne  was  settled,  just  before  the  breaking  out  of  the 
Revolution,  by  a  handful  of  adventurous  pioneers,  who  were  attacked  in 
1781  by  a  prowling  band  of  hostile  Indians.  This  incursion  is  memorable 
as  one  of  the  last  recorded  in  the  long  series  going  back  into  the  first 
decade  of  the  New  England  colonies.  •  It  was  one  of  the  boldest.  The 
histories  place  the  number  of  Indians  at  only  six.  After  visiting  Bethel, 
where  they  captured  three  white  men,  and  Gilead,  where  they  killed  an- 
other, they  entered  Shelburne.  Here  they  killed  and  scalped  Peter 
Poor,  and  took  a  negro  prisoner.  Such  was  the  terror  inspired  by  this 
audacious  onset,  that  the  inhabitants,  making  no  defence,  fled,  panic- 
struck,  to  Hark  Hill,  where  they  passed  the  night,  leaving  the  savages 
to  plunder  the  village  at  their  leisure.  The  next  day  the  refugees  con- 
tinued their  tfight,  stopping  only  when  they  reached  Fryeburg,  fifty- 
nine  miles  from  the  scene  of  disaster. 

Before  taking  leave  of  the  Androscoggin  Valley,  which  is  an  opulent 
picture-gallery,  and  where  at  every  step  one  finds  himself  arrested  before 
some  masterpiece  of  Nature,  the  traveller  is  strongly  advised  to  continue 
his  journey  to  Bethel,  the  town  next  below  Shelburne.  Bethel  is  one  of 
the  loveliest  and  dreamiest  of  mountain  nooks.  Its  expanses  of  rich 
verdure,  its  little  steeple,  emerging  from  groves  of  elm -trees,  its  rustic 
bridge  spanning  the  tireless  river,  its  air  of  lethargy  and  indolence,  cap- 
tivate eye  and  mind ;  and  to  eyes  tired  with  the  hardness  and  glare  of 
near  mountains,  the  distant  peaks  become  points  of  welcome  repose. 


178  THE     HEART    OE    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 


VII. 

ASCENT    BY    THE     CARRIAGE-ROAD. 

Where  the  huge  mountain  rears  his  brow  sublime, 
On  which  no  neighboring  height  its  shadow  flings, 
Led  by  desire  intense  the  steep  I  climb. 

Petrarch. 

THE  first  days  of  May,  1877,  found  me  again  at  the  Glen  House,  pre- 
pared to  put  in  immediate  execution  the  long -deferred  purpose  of 
ascending  Mount  Washington  in  the  balmy  days  of  spring.  Before  sep- 
arating for  the  night,  my  young  Jehu,  who  drove  me  from  Gorham  in  an 
hour,  said,  with  a  grin, 

"  So  you  are  going  where  they  cut  their  butter  with  a  chisel,  and 
their  meat  with  a  hand-saw  ?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  will  learn  to-morrow." 

"  Till  to-morrow,  then." 

"  Good-night." 

"  Good-night." 
■  At  si.x;  in  the  morning,  while  the  stars  were  yet  twinkling,  I  stood  in 
the  road  in  front  of  the  Glen  House.  Everything  announced  a  beautiful 
day.  The  rising  sun  crimsoned,  first,  the  dun  wall  of  Tuckerman's  Ra- 
vine, then  the  high  summits,  and  then  flowed  down  their  brawny  flanks 
— his  first  salutation  being  to  the  monarch.  In  ten  minutes  I  was  alone 
in  the  forest  with  the  squirrels,  the  partridges,  the  woodpeckers,  and  my 
own  thoughts. 

As  bears  are  not  unfrequently  seen  at  this  season  of  the  year,  I  kept 
my  eyes  about  me.  One  of  the  old  drivers  related  to  me  that  one  morn- 
ing, while  going  up  this  road  with  a  heavy  load  of  passengers,  his  horses 
suddenly  stopped,  showing  rtiost  unmistakable  signs  of  terror.  The 
place  was  a  dangerous  one,  where  the   road  had  been  wholly  excavated 


ASCENT    BY     THE     C  A  R  R  I A  G  E- R  O  A  D .  179 

from  the  steep  side  of  the  mountain,  so,  keeping  one  eye  upon  his  frac- 
tious team,  he  threw  quick  glances  right  and  left  with  the  other;  while 
the  passengers,  alarmed  by  the  sudden  stop,  the  driver's  shouts  to  his 
animals,  and  the  still  more  alarming  backward  movement  of  the  coach, 
thrust  their  heads  out  of  the  windows,  and  with  white  faces  demanded 
what  was  the  matter. 

"By  thunder!"  ejaculated  Jehu,  "there  was  my  leaders  all  in  a  lather, 
an'  backin'  almost  atop  of  the  fill-horses,  and  them  passengers  a-shoutin' 
like  lunatics  let  out  on  a  picnic.  'Look!  darn  it  all,'  sez  I,  a-pintin' 
with  my  whip.  My  bosses  was  all  in  a  heap,  I  tell  ye,  rarin'  and  charg- 
ing, when  a  little  Harvard  student,  with  his  head  sand-papered,  sung  out, 
'  All  right,  Cap,  I've  chucked  your  hind  wheels ;'  and  then  he  made  for 
the  leaders'  heads.  Them  college  chaps  ain't  such  darned  fools  arter  all, 
they  ain't." 

"  What  was  it  ?" 

"A  big  black  bear,  all  huddled  up  in  a  bunch,  a-takin'  his  morning 
observation  on  the  scenery  from  the  top  of  a  dead  sycamore.  You  see 
the  side  of  the  hill  was  so  slantin'  steep  that  he  want  more'n  tew  rod 
from  the  road." 

"  What  did  you  do  V 

"Dew.''"  echoed  the  driver,  laughing — "dew.?"  he  repeated,  "why,  them 
crazy  passengers,  when  they  found  the  bear  couldn't  get  at  them,  just 
picked  up  rocks  and  hove  them  at  the  old  cuss.  When  one  hit  him  a 
crack,  Lord,  how  he'd  shake  his  head  and  growl !  But,  you  see,  he 
couldn't  get  at  'em,  so  they  banged  away,  until  Mr.  Bruin  couldn't  stan' 
it  any  longer,  an'  slid  right  down  the  tree  as  slick  as  grease,  and  as  mad 
as  Old  Nick.  It  tickled  me  most  to  death  to  see  him  a-makin'  tooth- 
picks fly  from  that  tree." 

"  Was  that  your  only  encounter  with  bears .''"  I  asked,  willing  to  draw 
him  out. 

"Waal,  no,  not  exactly,"  he  replied,  chuckling  to  himself,  gleefully,  at 
some  recollection  the  question  revived.  "  There  used  to  be  a  tame  bear 
over  to  the  Alpine  House.  One  night  the  critter  got  loose,  and  we  all 
cal'lated  he'd  took  to  the  woods.  Anyhow  we  hunted  high  and  low ;  but 
no  bear.  Waal,  you  see,  one  forenoon  our  hostler  Mike — his  real  name 
was  Pat,  but  there  was  another  Pat  came  afore  him,  so  we  called  t'other 
Mike  —  went  up  in  the  barn-chamber  to  pitch  some  hay  down  to  the 
bosses."     Here  he  stopped  and  began  to  choke. 


l8o  THE     HEART     OE     THE      WHITE     MO  UNTAINS. 

"  Well,  go  on ;  what  has  that  to  do  with  the  bear  ?" 

"Just  you  hold  your  hosses  a  niinnit,  stranger.  Mike  hadn't  no 
sooner  jabbed  his  pitchfork  down,  so  as  to  git  a  big  bunch,  when  it 
struck  something  soft-like,  and  then,  before  he  knew  what  ailed  him,  the 
hay-mow  riz  rite  up  afore  him,  with  the  almightiest  growl  comin"  out  on't 
was  ever  heerd  in  any  maynagery  this  side  of  Noah's  Ark." 

Here  the  driver  broke  down  utterly,  gasping,  "  Oho !  aha!  oh  Lord! 
ah!  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  ho!  ho!  Mike!"  until  his  breath  was  quite  gone,  and 
the  big  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks.  Then  he  heaved  a  deep  sigh, 
attempted  to  go  on,  but  immediately  went  off  in  a  second  hysterical 
e.xplosion.     I  waited  for  his  recovery. 

"  Waal,"  he  at  length  resumed,  "  tlie  long  and- short  of  it  was  this: 
that  air  bear  had  buried  himself  under  the  hay-mow,  and  was  a-snoozin' 
it  comfortable  and  innocent  as  you  please,  when  Mike  prodded  him  in 
the  ribs  with  the  pitchfork.  The  fust  any  of  us  knew  we  saw  Mike 
come  a-flyin'  out  of  the  barn-chamber  window  and  the  bear  arter  him. 
Mike  led  him  a  length.  Maybe  that  Irishman  didn't  streak  it  for  the 
house !  Bless  you,  he  never  teched  the  ground  arter  he  struck  it !  The 
boys  couldn't  do  anything  for  laughing,  and  Mick  was  so  scart  he  forgot 
to  yell.  That  bear  was  so  hoppin'  wild  we  had  to  kill  him  ;  and  if  you 
wanted  to  make  Mike  fightin'  mad  any  time,  all  you  had  to  do  was  to 
ask  him  to  go  up  in  the  barn-chamber  and  pitch  clown  a  bear." 

The  first  four  miles  are  merely  toilsome.  It  is  only  when  emerging 
upon  tlie  bare  crags  above  the  woods  that  the  wonders  of  the  ascent 
begin,  and  the  succession  of  views,  dimly  seen  through  my  eyes  in  this 
chapter,  challenges  the  attention  at  every  step.  There  is  one  exception. 
About  a  mile  up,  the  road  issues  upon  a  jutting  spur  of  the  mountain, 
from  which  the  summit,  with  the  house  on  the  highest  point,  is  seen  in 
clear  weather. 

Suddenly  I  came  out  of  the  low  firs,  the  scrubby  growth  of  birches, 
upon  the  fear-inspiring  desolation  of  the  bared  and  wintry  summit.  The 
high  sun  poured  down  with  dazzling  brightness  upon  the  white  ledges, 
which,  rising  like  a  wall  above  the  solitary  cabin  before  me,  thrust  their 
jagged  edges  in  the  way,  as  if  to  forbid  farther  progress.  Out  of  this 
glittering  precipice  dead  trees  thrust  huge  antlers.  This  formless  mass 
overhanging  the  Half-Way  House,  known  as  The  Ledge,  is  one  of  the 
most  terrific  sights  of  the  journey. 

Until  clear  of  the  woods,  my  uneasiness,  inspired  by  the  recollection 


ASCENT    BY    THE     CARRIAGE-ROAD.  i8l 

of  the  ascent  from  Crawford's,  was  extreme ;  but  I  now  stood,  in  the  full 
blaze  of  an  unclouded  sun,  upon  a  treeless  wilderness  of  rock,  a  gratified 
spectator  of  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  scenes  it  has  ever  fallen  to 
man's  lot  to  witness.  But  what  a  frightful  silence!  Not  a  murmur;  not 
a  rustlins  leaf;  but  all  still  as  death.     I  was  half-afraid. 

At  my  feet  yawned  the  measureless  void  of  the  Great  Gulf,  torn 
from  the  entrails  of  the  mountain  by  Titanic  hands.  Above  my  head 
leaped  up  the  endless  pile  of  granite  constituting  the  dome  of  Washing- 
ton. It  had  now  exchanged  its  gray  cassock  for  pale  green.  All  around 
was  unutterable  desolation.  Crevassed  with  wide  splits,  encompassed 
round  by  lofty  mountain  walls,  the  gorge  was  at  once  fascinating  and 
forbidding,  grand  yet  terrible.  The  high -encircling  steeps  of  Clay  and 
Jefferson,  Adams  and  Madison,  enclosing  it  with  one  mighty  sweep,  as- 
cended out  of  its  depths  and  stretched  along  the  sky,  which  seemed 
receding  before  their  daring  advance.  Peering  down  into  the  abyss, 
where  the  tallest  pines  were  shrubs  and  their  trunks  needles,  the  earth 
seemed  split  to  its  centre,  and  the  feet  of  these  mountains  rooted  in  the 
midst.  To  confront  such  a  spectacle  unmoved  one  should  be  more,  or 
less  than  human. 

Looking  backward  over  the  forest  through  which  I  had  come,  the 
eye  caught  a  blur  of  white  and  a  gleam  of  blue  in  the  Peabody  Glen. 
The  white  was  the  hotel,  the  blue  the  river.  Following  the  vale  out  to 
its  entrance  upon  the  Androscoggin  meadows,  the  same  swift  messenger 
ascended  Moriah,  and,  traversing  the  confederate  peaks  to  the  summit  of 
Mount  Carter,  stopped  short  at  its  journey's  end. 

As  I  slowly  mounted  the  Ledge  the  same  unnatural  appearance  was 
everywhere — the  same  wreck,  same  desolation,  same  discord.  The  dead 
cedars,  bleaching  all  around,  looked  like  an  army  of  gigantic  crabs  crawl- 
ing up  the  mountain  side,  which  universal  ruin  overspread,  and  which 
even  the  soft  sunshine  rendered  more  ghastly  and  more  solemn.  I 
looked  eagerly  along  the  road ;  listened.  Not  a  human  being ;  not  a 
sound.     I  v/as  alone  upon  the  mountain. 

From  here  I  no  longer  walked  upon  earth  but  on  air.  Respira- 
tion became  more  and  more  difficult.  Not  even  a  zephyr  stirred,  while 
the  glare  was  painful  to  eyes  already  overtaxed  in  the  endeavor  to  grasp 
the  full  meaning  of  this  most  unaccustomed  scene.  The  road,  steadily 
ascending,  showed  its  zigzags  far  up  the  mountain.  Now  and  then  a 
rude   receptacle  had  been  dug,  or   rather  built   up,  by  the   road -side,  in 


i8  2  THE     HEART    OE    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 


MOUNT    AIIAMS    AM)    Till-.    (iUKAT    Gri,!-. 


wliich  earth  to 
mend  tlie   road 
*-V^'!^'^-       was  stored;  and  this  soil,  whol- 
'--■''"  ly    composed    of    disintegrated 

rock,  must   be    scraped   from    un- 
derneath the  ledges,  from  crevices,  from 


ASCENT    BY    THE     CARRIAGE-ROAD.  183 

hollows,  and  husbanded  with  care.  "  As  cheap  as  dirt,"  was  a  saying 
without  significance  here.  As  I  neared  the  summit  the  melting  snows 
had,  in  many  places,  swept  it  bare,  exposing  the  naked  ledge ;  and  here 
earth  must  be  brought  up  from  lower  down  the  mountain.  But  the 
pains  bestowed  upon  it  equals  the  incessant  demand  for  its  preservation, 
and  had  I  not  seen  with  my  own  eyes  I  could  scarcely  have  believed  so 
excellent  a  specimen  of  road-making  existed  in  this  desert. 

But  how  long  will  the  mountain  resist  the  denuding  process  con- 
stantly going  on,  and  what  repair  the  gradual  but  certain  disintegration 
of  the  peak  1  It  is  a  monument  of  human  inability  to  act  upon  it  in 
any  way.  Be  it  so.  The  snows,  the  frosts,  the  rains,  pursue  their  work 
none  the  less  surely.  Yon  see  in  the  deep  gullies,  the  avalanches  of 
stones,  the  sands  of  the  sea-shore — so  many  evidences  of  the  forces  which, 
sooner  or  later,  will  accomplish  the  miracle  and  remove  the  mountain. 

From  my  next  halting-place  I  perceived  that  I  had  been  traversing 
a  promontory  of  the  mountain  jutting  boldly  out  into  the  Great  Gulf, 
above  the  Half-Way  House;  and,  looking  down  over  the  parapet- wall, 
a  mile  or  more  of  the  road  uncoiled  its  huge  folds,  turning  hither  and 
thither,  doubling  upon  itself  like  a  bewildered  serpent,  and,  like  the  ser- 
pent, always  gaining  a  little  on  the  mountain.  This  is  one  of  the 
strangest  sights  of  this  strange  journey ;  but,  in  order  to  appreciate  it  at 
its  full  value,  one  should  be  descending  by  the  stage-coach,  when  the 
danger,  more  apparent  than  real,  is  intensified  by  the  swift  descent  of 
the  mountain  into  the  gulf  below,  over  which  the  traveller  sees  himself 
suspended  with  feelings  more  poignant  than  agreeable.  The  fact  that 
there  has  never  been  a  fatal  accident  upon  the  carriage  -  road  speaks 
volumes  for  the  caution  and  skill  of  the  drivers ;  but,  as  one  of  the  old- 
est and  most  experienced  said  to  me,  "  There  should  be  no  fooling,  no 
chaffing,  and  no  drinking  on  that  road."' 

■  Since  the  above  was  written,  a  deplorable  accident  has  given  melancholy  emphasis  to 
these  words  of  warning.  I  leave  them  as  they  are,  because  they  were  employed  by  the  very 
person  to  whom  the  disaster  was  due  :  "  The  first  accident  by  which  any  passengers  were  ever 
injured  on  the  carriage-road,  from  the  Glen  House  to  the  summit  of  Mount  Washington,  oc- 
curred July  3d,  1880,  about  a  mile  below  the  Half-Way  House.  One  of  the  si.x-horse  moun- 
tain wagons,  containing  a  party  of  nine  persons — the  last  load  of  the  e-xcursionists  from  Michi- 
gan to  make  the  descent  of  the  mountain — was  tipped  over,  and  one  lady  was  killed  and  five 
others  injured.  Soon  after  starting  from  the  summit  the  passengers  discovered  that  the 
driver  had  been  drinking  while  waiting  for  the  party  to  descend.  They  left  this  wagon  a 
short  distance  from  the  summit  and  walked  to  the  Half-Way  House,  four  miles  below,  where 


184  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

Continuing  to  ascend,  the  road  once  more  took  a  different  direction, 
curving  around  that  side  of  the  mountain  rising  above  the  Pinkham 
forest.  This  di'tour  brought  the  Carter  chain  upon  my  left,  instead  of 
on  my  riglit. 

Thus  far  I  Iiad  encountered  Httle  snow,  though  tlie  rocks  were  every- 
where crusted  with  ice;  but  now  a  sudden  turning  brouglit  me  full  upon 
an  enormous  bank,  completely  blocking  the  road,  which  here  skirted 
the  edge  of  a  high  precipice.  Had  a  sentinel  suddenly  barred  my  way 
with  his  baj'onet,  I  could  not  have  been  more  astonished.  I  was  brought 
to  a  dead  stand.  I  looked  over  the  parapet,  then  at  the  snow-ljank,  then 
at  the  mountain.  The  first  look  made  me  shudder,  the  second  thought- 
ful, the  third  gave  me  a  headache. 

At  this  spot  the  side  of  the  mountain  was  only  a  continuation  of  the 
precipice,  bent  slightly  backward  from  the  perpendicular,  and  ascending 
several  hundred  feet  higher.  The  snow,  extending  a  hundred  feet  or 
more  above,  and  conforming  nearly  with  the  slope  of  the  mountain,  filled 
the  road  for  thrice  that  distance.  I  saw  that  it  was  only  i:)revented  from 
sliding  into  the  valley  by  the  low  wall  of  loose  stones  at  the  edge  of  the 
road ;  but  how  long  would  that  resist  the  great  pressure  upon  it .?  The 
snow-bank  had  already  melted  at  its  edges,  so  that  I  could  crawl  some 
distance  underneath,  and  hear  the  drip  of  water  above  and  below,  show- 
ing that  it  was  being  steadily  undermined.  In  fact,  the  whole  mass 
seemed  on  the  point  of  precipitating  itself  over  the  precipice.  I  could 
neither  go  around  it  nor  under  it ;  so  much  was  certain. 

What  to  do .''  I  had  only  a  strong  umbrella,  the  inseparable  com- 
panion of  my  mountain  jaunts,  and  the  glacier  was  as  steep  as  a  roof. 
What  assurance  was  there  that  if  I  ventured  upon  it  the  whole  sheet, 
dislodged  by  my  weight,  might  not  be  shot  off  the  mountain  side,  carry- 
ing me  with  it  to  the  bottom  of  the  abyss.?  But  while  I  felt  no  desire 
to  add  mine  to  the  catalogue  of  victims   already  claimed  by  the   moun- 

one  of  the  employes  of  the  Carriage-road  Company  assured  them  that  there  was  no  bad  place 
below  that,  and  that  he  thought  it  would  be  safe  for  them  to  resume  their  seats  with  the 
driver,  who  was  with  them.  Soon  after  passing  the  Half- Way  House,  in  driving  around  a  curve 
too  rapidly,  the  carriage  was  overset,  throwing  the  occupants  into  the  woods  and  on  the  rocks. 
Mrs.  Ira  Chichester,  of  Allegan,  Michigan,  was  instantly  killed,  her  huslwnd,  who  was  sitting 
at  her  side,  being  only  slightly  bruised.  Of  the  other  occupants,  several  were  more  or  less 
injured.  The  injured  were  brought  at  once  to  the  Glen  House,  and  received  every  possible 
care  and  attention.  Lindsey,  the  driver,  was  taken  up  insensible.  He  had  been  on  the  road 
ten  years,  and  was  considered  one  of  the  safest  and  most  reliable  drivers  in  the  mountains." 


ASCENT    BY     THE     CARRIAGE-ROAD.  185 

tain,  the  idea  of  being  turned  back  was  inadmissible.  Native  caution 
put  tiie  question,  "  Will  you  ?"  and  native  persistency  answered,  "  I  will." 

When  a  thing  is  to  be  done,  the  best  way  is  to  do  it.  I  therefore 
tried  the  snow,  and,  finding  a  solid  foothold,  resolved  to  venture ;  had  it 
been  soft,  I  should  not  have  dared.  Using  my  umbrella  as  an  alpen- 
stock, I  crossed  on  the  parapet,  where  the  declivity  was  the  least,  and 
without  accident,  but  slowly  and  breathlessly,  until  near  the  opposite 
side,  when  I  passed  the  intervening  space  in  two  bounds,  alighting  in 
the  road  with  the  blood  tingling  to  my  fingers'  ends. 

A  sharp  turn  around  a  ledge,  and  the  south-east  wall  of  Tuckermans 
Ravine  rose  up,  like  a  wraith,  out  of  the  forest.  Nearer  at  hand  was  the 
head  of  Huntington's,  while  to  the  right  the  cone  of  Washington  loomed 
grandly  more  than  a  thousand  feet  higher.  A  little  to  the  left  you  look 
down  into  the  gloomy  depths  of  the  Pinkham  defile,  the  valley  of  Ellis 
River,  the  Saco  Valley  to  North  Conway,  where  the  familiar  figure  of 
Kearsarge  is  the  presiding  genius.  The  blue  course  of  the  Ellis,  which 
is  nothing  but  a  long  cascade,  the  rich  green  of  the  Conway  intervales, 
the  blanched  peak  of  Chocorua,  the  sapphire  summits  of  the  Ossipee 
Mountains,  were  presented  in  conjunction  with  the  black  and  humid 
walls  of  the  ravine,  and  the  iron -gray  mass  of  the  great  dome.  The 
crag  on  which  I  stood  leans  out  over  the  mountain  like  a  bastion,  from 
which  the  spectator  sees  the  deep- intrenched  valleys,  the  rivers  which 
wash  the  feet  of  the  monarch,  and  the  long  line  of  summits  which  par- 
take his  grandeur  while  making  it  all  the  more  impressive.' 

Turning  now  my  back  upon  the  Glen,  the  way  led  in  the  opposite 
direction,  and  began  to  look  over  the  depression  between  Clay  and  Jef- 
ferson into  the  world  of  blue  peaks  beyond.  From  here  the  striking 
spectacle  of  the  four  great  northern  peaks,  their  naked  summits,  their 
sides  seamed  with  old  and  new  slides,  and  flecked  with  snow,  constantly 
enlarged.  There  were  some  terrible  rents  in  the  side  of  Clay,  red  as 
half-closed  wounds;  in  one  place  the  mountain  seemed  cloven  to  its 
centre.  It  was  of  this  gulf  that  the  first  climber  said  it  was  such  a 
precipice  he  could  scarce  discern  to  the  bottom.  The  rifts  in  the  walls 
of  the  ravine,  the  blasted  fir-trees  leaning  over  the  abyss,  and  clutching 


'  A  stone  bench,  known  as  Willis's  Seat,  has  been  fixed  in  the  parapet  wall  at  the  extreme 
southern  angle  of  the  road,  between  the  sixth  and  seventh  miles.  It  is  a  fine  lookout,  but  will 
need  to  be  carefully  searched  for. 

14 


1 86  THE     HEART     OF     THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

the  rocks  with  a  death-gripe,  the  rocks  themselves,  tormented,  formidable, 
impending,  astound  by  their  vivid  portrayal  of  the  formless,  their  sugges- 
tions of  the  agony  in  which  these  mountains  were  brought  forth. 

I  was  now  fairly  upon  the  broad,  grass-grown  terrace  at  the  base  of 
the  pinnacle,  sometimes  called  the  Cow  Pasture.  The  low  peak  rising 
upon  its  limits  is  a  monument  to  the  fatal  temerity  of  a  traveller  who, 
having  climbed,  as  he  supposed,  to  the  top  of  the  mountain,  died  from 
hunger  or  exposure,  or  from  both,  at  this  inhospitable  spot.'  A  skeleton 
in  rags  was  found,  at  the  end  of  a  year,  huddled  under  some  rocks. 
Farther  down  the  mountain  a  heap  of  stones  indicates  the  place  where 
Doctor  Ball,  of  Boston,  was  found  by  the  party  sent  in  search  of  him, 
famished,  exhausted,  and  almost  delirious.  When  rescued,  he  had  passed 
two  nights  upon  the  mountain,  without  food,  fire,  or  shelter,  after  as 
many  days  of  fruitless  wandering  up  and  down,  always  led  astray  by 
his  want  of  knowledge,  and  mocked  by  occasional  glimpses  of  snowy 
peaks  above,  or  the  distant  Glen  below.  More  dead  than  alive,  he  was 
supported  down  the  mountain  as  far  as  the  camp  at  The  Ledge,  whence 
he  was  able  to  ride  to  the  Glen  House.  His  reappearance  had  the  effect 
of  one  risen  from  the  dead.  In  reality,  the  rescuing  party  took  up  with 
them  materials  for  a  rude  bier,  expecting  to  find  a  dead  body  stiffening 
in  the  snow." 

Besides  this  almost  unheard  of  resistance  to  hunger,  cold,  and  ex- 
haustion combined,  and  notwithstanding  the  fortitude  which  enabled  the 
lost  man  to  continue  his  desperate  struggle  for  life  until  rescued,  all 
would  doubtless  have  been  to  no  purpose  without  the  aid  of  an  umbrella, 
which,  by  a  lucky  chance,  he  took  at  setting  out.  This  umbrella  was 
his  only  protection  during  the  two  terrible  vigils  he  made  upon  the 
mountain.  How,  is  related  in  the  chapter  on  the  ascent  from  Craw- 
ford's. 

Crossing  the  terrace,  where  even  the  road  seems  glad  to  rest  after 
its  laborious  climb  of  seven  miles,  and  where  the  traveller  may  also  relax 
his  efforts,  preparatory  to  his  arduous  advance  up  the  pinnacle,  I  came 
upon  the  railway,  still  solidly  embedded  in  snow  and  ice. 

Still  making  a  route  for  itself  among  massy  blocks,  tilted  at  ev- 
ery   conceivable    angle,  but    forming,  nevertheless,  a    symmetrical    cone. 


'  Benjamin  Chandler,  of  Delaware,  in  August,  1856. 

'  Dr.  B.  L.  Ball's  "Three  Days  on  the  White  Mountains,"  in  October,  1855. 


ASCENT    BY    THE     CA  R  R  J  A  G  E- R  O  A  D . 


187 


the  carnage -road  winds  up  the  steep  ascent,  to  which  the  railway  is 
nailed.  While  traversing  the  plateau,  with  the  Summit  House  now  in 
full  view,  my  eye  caught,  far  above  me,  the  figure  of  a  man  pacing  up 
and  down  before  the  building,  like  a  sentinel  on  his  post.  I  swung  my 
hat   in   the   air;   again;    but   he   did   not   see   me.      Nevertheless,  I   experi- 


fr-. 


WINTER   STORM   ON   THE   SUMMIT. 


enced  a  thrill  of  pleasure  at  seeing  him,  so  acutely  had  the  sense  of 
loneliness  come  over  me  in  these  awful  solitudes.  It  put  such  vigor 
into  my  steps  that  in  half  an  hour  I  crossed  the  last  rise,  when  the  soli- 
tary pedestrian,  making  an  about-face   at  the  end  of  his  beat,  suddenly 


1 88  THE    HEAR  2^    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

discovered  a  strange  form  and  figure  emerging  from  the  rocks  before 
him.  He  stopped  short,  took  the  pipe  from  his  teeth,  looking  with 
open-mouthed  astonishment,  then,  as  I  continued  to  approach,  he  hast- 
ened toward  me,  met  me  half-way,  and,  between  rapid  questions  and  an- 
swers, led  the  way  into  the  signal  station. 

Behold  me  installed  in  the  cupola  of  New  England!  While  I  was 
resting,  my  host,  a  tall,  bronzed,  bearded  man,  bustled  about  the  two  or 
three  apartments  constituting  this  swallow's  nest.  He  put  the  kettle 
on  the  stove,  gave  the  fire  a  stir,  spread  a  cloth  upon  the  table,  and  took 
some  plates,  cups,  and  saucers  from  a  locker,  some  canned  meats  and 
fruit  from  a  cupboard,  I,  meanwhile,  following  all  these  movements  with 
an  interest  easily  imagined.  His  preparations  completed,  my  host  first 
ran  his  eye  over  them  approvingly,  then,  presenting  a  pen,  requested  me 
to  inscribe  my  name  in  the  visitors"  book.  I  did  so,  noticing  that  the 
last  entry  was  in  October  —  that  is,  five  months  had  elapsed  since  the 
last  climber  wended  his  solitary  way  down  the  mountain.  My  hospita- 
ble entertainer  then,  with  perfect  politeness,  begged  me  to  draw  my 
chair  to  the  table  and  fall  to.  I  did  not  refuse.  While  he  poured  out 
the  tea,  I  asked, 

"Whom  have  I  the  pleasure  of  addressing.''"  and  he  modestly  re- 
plied, 

"  Private  Doyle,  sir,  of  the  United  States  Signal  Service.  Have  an- 
other bit  of  devilled  ham  }     No .''     Try  these  peaches." 

"  Thank  you.  At  least  Uncle  Sam  renders  vour  exile  tolerable.  Is 
this  your  ordinary  fare.''" 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  you  should  see  us  in  the  dead  of  winter,  chopping 
our  frozen  meat  with  a  hatchet,  and  our  lard  with  a  chisel." 

This,  then,  was  what  my  young  Jehu  had  meant.  Where  was  I  ?  I 
glanced  out  of  the  window.  Nothing  but  sky,  nothing  but  rocks ;  im- 
mensity and  desolation.  I  disposed  my  ideas  to  hear  my  companion 
ask,  "  What  is  the  news  from  the  other  world .''" 


MOUNT    WASHINGTON.  i8y 


VIII. 

M O  UN  T    ] VA  SHINGTON. 

The  soldiers  from  the  mountain  Tlieches  ran  from  rear  to  front,  breaking  their  ranks,  crowd- 
ing tumultuously  upon  each  other,  laughing  and  shouting,  "The  sea!  the  sea!" — Xenophon's 
Anabasis. 

AFTER  the  repast  we  walked  out,  Private  Doyle  and  I,  upon  the 
narrow  platform  behind  the  house.  According  to  every  appear- 
ance I  had  reached  Ultima  Thulc. 

For  some  moments — moments  not  to  be  forgotten — we  stood  there 
silent.  Neither  stirred.  The  scene  was  too  tremendous  to  be  grasped 
in  an  instant.  A  moment  was  needed  to  recover  one's  moral  equipoise, 
as  well  as  for  the  unpractised  eye  to  adjust  itself  to  the  vastness  of  the 
landscape,  and  to  the  multitude  of  objects,  strange  objects,  everywhere 
confronting  it.  My  own  sensations  were  at  first  too  vague  for  analysis, 
too  tumultuous  for  expression.     The  flood  choked  itself. 

All  seemed  chaos.  On  every  side  the  great  mountains  fell  away  like 
mists  of  the  morning,  dispersing,  receding  to  an  endless  distance,  dimin- 
ishing, growing  more  and  more  vague,  and  finally  vanishing  on  a  limit- 
less horizon  neither  earth  nor  sky.  Never  befoi'e  had  such  a  spectacle 
offered  itself  to  my  gaze.  The  first  idea  was  of  standing  on  the  thresh- 
old of  another  planet,  and  of  looking  down  upon  this  world  of  ours  out- 
spread beneath ;  the  second,  of  being  face  to  face  with  eternity  itself. 
No  one  ever  felt  exhilaration  at  first.     The  scene  is  too  solemnizing. 

But  by  degrees  order  came  out  of  this  chaos.  The  bewildering 
throng  of  mountains  arranged  itself  in  chains,  clusters,  or  families.  Hills 
drew  apart,  valleys  opened,  streams  twinkled  in  the  sun,  towns  and  vil- 
lages clung  to  the  skirts  of  the  mountains  or  dotted  the  rich  meadows ; 
but  all  was  mysterious,  all  as  yet  unreal. 

Comprehending  at  last  that  all  New  England  was  under  my  feet,  I 
began  to  search  out  certain  landmarks.     But  this  investigation  is  fatigu- 


igo  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

ing:  besides,  it  conducts  to  nothing — absolutely  nothing.  Pointing  to  a 
scrap  of  blue  haze  in  the  west,  my  companion  observed,  "  That  is  Mount 
Mansfield;"  and  I,  mechanically,  repeated,  "Ah  !  that  is  Mount  Mansfield." 
It  was  nothing.  Distance  and  Infinity  have  no  more  relation  than  Time 
and  Eternity.  It  sufficed  for  me,  God  knows,  to  be  admitted  near  the  per- 
son of  the  great  autocrat  of  New  England,  while  under  skies  so  fair  and 
radiant  he  gave  audience  to  his  imposing  and  splendid  retinue  of  moun- 
tains. 

But  still,  independent  of  the  will,  the  eye  flitted  from  peak  to  peak, 
from  summit  to  summit,  making  the  slow  circuit  of  this  immense  horizon, 
hovering  at  last  over  a  band  of  white  gleaming  far  away  in  the  south- 
east like  a  luminous  cloud,  on  whose  surface  objects  like  birds  reposed. 
It  was  the  sea,  and  tlie  specks  ships  sailing  on  the  main.  With  the  aid 
of  a  telescope  we  could  even  tell  what  sails  the  vessels  carried.  In  these 
few  seconds  the  eye  had  put  a  girdle  of  six  hundred  miles  about.' 

I  consider  this  first  introduction  to  what  the  peak  of  Mount  Wash- 
ington looks  down  upon  an  epoch  in  any  man's  life.  I  saw  the  whole 
noble  company  of  mountains  from  highest  to  lowest.  I  saw  the  deep 
depressions  through  which  the  Connecticut,  the  Merrimac,  the  Saco,  the 
Androscoggin,  wind  toward  the  lowlands.  I  saw  the  lakes  which  nurse 
the  infant  tributaries  of  those  streams.  1  saw  the  great  northern  forests, 
the  notched  wall  of  the  Green  Mountains,  the  wide  expanse  of  level  land, 
flat  and  heavy  like  the  ocean,  and  finally  the  ocean  itself.  .And  all  this 
was  mingled  in  one  mighty  scene. 

The  utmost  that  I  can  say  of  this  view  is  that  it  is  a  marvel.  You 
receive  an  impression  of  the  illimitable  such  as  no  other  natural  specta- 
cle— no,  not  even  the  sea — can  give.  Astonishment  can  go  no  farther. 
Nevertheless,  the  truth  is  that  you  are  on  too  high  a  view-point  for  the 
most  effective  grasp  of  mountain  scenery.  This  immense  height  renders 
near  objects  indistinct,  obscures  the  more  distant.  Seldom,  indeed,  is  the 
land  seen,  even  under  favoring  conditions,  except  through  a  soft  haze, 
which,  you  are  surprised  to  notice,  becomes  more  and  more  transparent 
as  you  descend.      The  eye  explores  this  clair-obscur,  and  gradually  dis- 

'  Considering  the  pinnacle  of  Mount  Washington  as  the  centre  of  a  circle  of  vision,  the 
greatest  distance  I  have  been  able  to  see  with  the  naked  eye.  in  nine  ascensions,  did  not  prob- 
ably much  exceed  one  hundred  miles.  This  being  half  the  diameter,  the  circumference  would 
surpass  six  hundred  miles.  It  is  now  considered  settled  that  Kalahdiii,  one  hundred  and  si.xty 
miles  distant,  is  not  visible  from  Mount  Washinirton. 


MOUNT    WASHINGTON.  191 

ccrns  this  or  that  object.  It  is  true  that  you  see  to  a  great  distance, 
but  you  do  not  distinguish  anything  clearly.  This  is  the  rule,  derived 
from  many  observations,  to  which  the  crystal  air  of  autumn  and  winter 
makes  the  rare  and  fortunate  exception. 

There  is  a  more  cogent  reason  why  the  view  from  Mount  Washington 
is  inferior  to  that  from  other  and  lower  summits.  Everything  is  below 
you,  and,  naturally,  therefore,  any  picture  of  these  mountains  not  showing 
the  cloud-capped  dome  of  the  monarch,  attended  by  his  cortege  of  grand 
peaks — the  central,  dominating,  perfecting  group — must  be  essentially  in- 
complete. Imagine  Rome  without  St.  Peter's,  or,  to  come  nearer  home, 
Boston  without  her  State  House !  One  word  more :  from  this  lofty  height 
you  lose  the  symmetrical  relation  of  the  lesser  summits  to  the  grand 
whole.  Even  these  signal  embodiments  of  heroic  strength — the  peaks  of 
Jefferson,  Adams,  and  Madison  —  so  vigorously  self-asserting  that  what 
they  lose  in  stature  they  gain  by  a  powerful  individuality,  even  these  suf- 
fer a  partial  eclipse ;  but  the  summits  stretching  to  the  southward  are  so 
dwarfed  as  to  be  divested  of  any  character  as  typical  mountain  structures. 
What  fascinates  us  is  the  "  sublime  chaos  of  trenchant  crests,  of  peaks 
shooting  upward ;"  and  the  charm  of  the  view — such  at  least  is  the  writ- 
er's conviction — resides  rather  in  the  immediate  surroundings  than  in  the 
extent  of  the  panorama,  great  as  that  unquestionably  is. 

One  thing  struck  me  with  great  force  —  the  enormous  mass  of  the 
mountain.  The  more  you  realize  that  the  dependent  peaks,  stretching 
eight  miles  north,  and  as  many  south,  are  nothing  but  buttresses,  the 
more  this  prodigious  weight  amazes.  Two  long  spurs,  divided  by  the 
valley  of  the  Rocky  Branch,  also  descend  into  the  Saco  Valley  as  far 
as  Bartlett ;  and  another,  shorter,  but  of  the  same  indestructible  masonry, 
is  traced  between  the  valleys  of  the  Ammonoosuc  and  of  Israel's  River. 
In  a  word,  as  the  valleys  lie  and  the  roads  run,  we  must  travel  sixty  or 
seventy  miles  around  in  order  to  make  the  circuit  of  Mount  Washington 
at  its  base. 

Even  here  one  is  not  satisfied  if  he  sees  a  stone  ever  so  little  above 
him.'     The  best  posts  for  an  outlook,  after  the  signal  station,  are  upon  a 


'  The  highest  point,  formerly  indicated  by  a  cairn  and  a  beacon,  is  now  occupied  by  an 
observatory,  built  of  planks,  and,  of  course,  commanding  the  whole  horizon.  It  is  desirable  to 
examine  this  vast  landscape  in  detail,  or  so  much  of  it  as  the  eye  embraces  at  once,  and  no 
more. 


192       ■    THE     HEAR2-    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

point  of  rocks  behind  the  old  Tip-Top  House,  and  from  the  end  of  the 
hotel  platform,  where  the  railway  begins  its  terrifying  descent.  From  all 
these  situations  the  view  was  large  and  satisfying.  From  the  first  sta- 
tion one  overlooks  the  southern  summits ;  from  the  second,  the  northern. 
A  movement  of  the  head  discloses,  in  turn,  the  ocean,  the  lakes  and 
lowlands  of  Maine  and  New  Hampshire,  the  broad  highlands  of  Mas- 
sachusetts, the  fading  forms  of  Monadnock  and  Wachusett,  the  highest 
peaks  of  Vermont  and  New  York,  and,  finally,  the  great  Canadian  wilder- 
ness. 

After  all  this,  the  eye  dwells  upon  the  hideous  waste  of  rock  black- 
ened by  ages  of  exposure,  corroded  with  a  green  incrustation,  like  vcrd- 
antique,  constituting  the  dome.  It  is  at  once  mournful  and  appalling. 
Time  has  dealt  the  mountain  some  crushing  blows,  as  we  see  by  these 
ghastly  ruins,  bearing  silent  testimony  to  their  own  great  age.  It  is 
necessary  to  step  with  care,  for  the  rocks  are  sharp -edged.  The  green 
appearance  is  due  to  lichens  which  bespatter  them.  Greedy  little  spi- 
ders inhabit  them.     Truly  this  is  a  spot  disinherited  by  Nature. 

Noticing  many  boards  scattered  helter-skelter  about  the  top  and  sides 
of  the  mountain,  I  drew  my  companion's  attention  to  them,  and  he  ex- 
plained that  what  I  saw  was  the  result  of  the  great  January  gale,  which 
had  blown  down  the  shed  used  as  an  engine-house,  demolished  every 
vestige  of  the  walk  leading  from  the  hotel  to  the  signal  station,  and  dis- 
tributed the  fragments  as  if  they  had  been  straws  far  and  wide,  as  I  saw 
them. 

The  same  gale  had  swept  the  coast  from  Hatteras  to  Canso  with 
destructive  fury.  I  begged  Private  Doyle  to  give  me  his  recollections 
of  it.     We  returned  to  the  station,  and  he  began  as  follows : 

"  At  the  time  of  the  tornado   I  was  sick,  and  my  comrade.  Sergeant 

M ,  who  is  now  absent  on   leave,  had  to  do  my  turn    as  well  as  his 

own.  '  Uncle  Sam,'  you  know,  keeps  two  of  us  here,  for  fear  of  acci- 
dents." ' 

"  It  surprised  me  to  find  you  here  alone,"  I  assented. 

"  This  is  the  third  day."  Then,  resuming  his  narrative,  "  During  the 
forenoon  preceding  the  gale  we  observed  nothing  very  unusual ;  but  the 
clouds  kept  sinking  and  sinking,  until,  in  the  afternoon,  the  summit  alone 

'  One  poor  fellow  (Private  Stevens)  did  die  here  in  1S72.     His  comrade  remained  one  day 
and  two  nights  alone  with  the  dead  body  before  help  could  be  summoned  from  below. 


MOUNT    WASHINGTON.  193 

was  above  them.  For  miles  around  nothing  could  be  seen  but  one  vast 
ocean  of  frozen  vapor,  with  peaks  sticking  out  here  and  there,  like  ice- 
bergs floating  in  this  ocean  —  all  being  cased  in  snow  and  ice.  I  can- 
not tell  you  how  curious  this  was.  Later  in  the  day  the  density  of  the 
clouds  became  such  that  they  reflected  the  colors  of  the  spectrum  :  and 
that  too  was  beautiful  beyond  description.  It  was  about  this  time  Ser- 
geant M came  to  where  I  was  lying,  and  said, '  There  is  going  to  be 

the  devil  to  pay;  so  I  guess  I'll  make  everything  snug.' 

"  By  nine  in  the  evening  the  wind  had  increased  to  one  hundred 
miles  an  hour,  with  heavy  sleet,  so  that  no  observation  could  be  safely 
made  from  without.  At  midnight  the  velocity  of  the  storm  was  one 
hundred  and  twenty  miles,  and  the  exposed  thermometer  recorded  24° 
below  zero.  We  could  hardly  get  it  above  freezing  inside  the  house. 
With  the  stove  red,  water  froze  within  three  feet  of  the  fire ;  in  fact, 
where  you  are  now  sitting. 

"  At  this  time  the  uproar  outside  was  deafening.  About  one  o'clock 
the  wind  rose  to  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles.  It  was  now  blowing  a 
hurricane.  That  carpet  (indicating  the  one  in  the  room  where  we  were) 
stood  up  a  foot  from  the  floor,  like  a  sail.  The  wind,  gathering  up  all 
the  loose  ice  on  top  of  the  mountain,  dashed  it  against  the  house  in  one 
continuous  volley.  I  lay  wondering  how  long  we  should  stand  this  ter- 
rific pounding,  when  all  at  once  there  came  a  crash.     M shouted  to 

me  to  get  up ;  but  I  had  tumbled  out  in  a  hurry  on  hearing  the  glass 
go.     You  see  I  was  ready-dressed,  to  keep  myself  warm  in  bed. 

"Our  united  efforts  were  hardly  equal  to  closing  the  storm -shutters 
from  the  inside ;  but  we  succeeded,  finally,  though  the  lights  were  out, 
and  we  worked  in  the  dark."  He  rose  in  order  to  show  me  how  the 
shutters,  made  of  thick  oak  planks,  were  secured  by  a  bar,  and  by  strong 
wooden  buttons  screwed  in  the  window-frame. 

"  We  had  scarcely  done  this,"  resumed  Doyle,  "  and  were  shivering 
over  the  fire,  when  a  heavy  gust  of  wind  again  burst  open  the  shutters 
as  easy  as  if  they  had  never  been  fastened  at  all.  We  sprang  to  our 
feet.  After  a  hard  tussle  we  again  secured  the  windows  by  nailing  a 
cleat  to  the  floor,  against  which  we  fixed  one  end  of  a  board,  using  the 
other  end  as  a  lever.  You  understand  ?"  I  nodded.  "  Well,  even  then 
it  was  all  we  could  do  to  force  the  shutters  back  into  place.  But  we 
did  it.     We  had  to  do  it. 

"  The   rest  of  the  night  was   passed   in   momentary  expectation   that 

15 


194 


THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 


the  building  would  be  blown  over  into  Tuckerman's  Ravine,  and  we 
with  it.  At  four  in  the  morning  the  wind  registered  one  hundred  and 
eighty-six  miles.  It  had  shifted  then  from  east  to  north-east.  From  this 
time   it  steadily  fell  to  ten   miles  at  nine  o'clock  —  as   calm  as  a  daisy. 

This   was    the    heaviest   blow  ever 
experienced  on  the  mountain." 

"  Suppose  this  house  had  gone, 
and  the  hotel  stood  fast,  could  you 
have  effected  an  entrance  into  the 
hotel.?"  I  asked. 

"  No,  indeed.     We  could  not 
have  faced  the  wind." 

"  Not  for  a  hundred  feet,  and 
in  a  matter  of  life 
and  death  T 

"  In  that  gale  ? 
We  should  have 
been  lifted  clean 
off  our  feet  and 
smashed  upon  the 
rocks  like  this  bot- 
tle," flinging  one 
( )ut  at  the  door. 

"  So  then  for 
all  those  hours  you 
expected  from  one 
moment  to  anoth- 
er to  be  swept  into 
eternity  V 

"  We  did  what 

we  could.    Each  of 

us  wrapped  himself 

up  in  blankets  and 

quilts,  tying   these 

tightly  around  him  with  ropes,  to  which  were  attached  bars   of  iron,  so 

that  if  the  house  went  by  the  board  we  might  stand  a  chance— a  slim 

one — of  anchoring,  somehow,  somewhere." 

I  tried  to   make   him   admit   that   he  was   afraid;   but  he  would   not. 


lilt.    InKNAli' 


i.\  1  ua;,i-  1 


MOUNT    WASHINGTON.  195^ 

Only  he  forgot,  he  said,  in  the  excitement  of  that  terrible  night,  that  he 
was  ill,  until  the  danger  was  over. 

"  We  are  going  to  have  a  blow,"  observed  Doyle,  glancing  at  the  ba- 
rometer— "  barometer  falling,  wind  rising.  Besides,  that  blue  haze,  creep- 
ing over  the  valley,  is  a  pretty  sure  sign  of  a  change  of  weather."  His 
prognostic  was  completely  verified  in  the  course  of  a  few  hours. 

"  Now,"  said  Doyle,  rising,  "  I  must  go  and  feed  my  chick." 

We  retraced  our  steps  to  the  point  of  rocks  overhanging  the  south- 
ern slope,  where  he  stopped  and  began  to  scatter  crumbs,  I  watching  him 
curiously  meanwhile.  Pretty  soon  he  went  down  on  his  hands  and 
knees  and  peered  underneath  the  rocks.  "  Ah !"  he  exclaimed,  with  vi- 
vacity, "  there  you  are  !" 

"  What  is  it  T  I  asked  ;  "  what  is  there  ?" 

"  My  mouse.  He  is  rather  shy,  and  knows  I  am  not  alone,"  he  re- 
plied, chirruping  to  the  animal  with  affectionate  concern. 

Brought  to  the  mountain  top  in  some  barrel  or  box,  the  little  stow- 
away had  become  domesticated,  and  would  come  at  the  call  of  his  human 
playmate.  The  incident  was  trifling  enough  of  itself,  yet  there  was  some- 
thing touching  in  this  companionship,  something  that  sharply  recalled 
the  sense  of  loneliness  I  had  myself  experienced.  In  reality,  the  dispari- 
ty between  the  man  and  the  mouse  seemed  not  greater  than  that  be- 
tween the  mountain  and  the  man. 

While  we  were  standing  among  the  rocks  the  sun  touched  the  west- 
ern horizon.  The  heavens  became  obscured.  All  at  once  I  saw  an  im- 
mense shadow  striding  across  the  valley  below  us.  Slowly  and  majes- 
tically it  ascended  the  Carter  chain  until  it  reached  the  highest  summit. 
I  could  not  repress  an  exclamation  of  surprise ;  but  what  was  my  aston- 
ishment to  see  this  immense  phantom,  without  pausing  in  its  advance, 
lift  itself  into  the  upper  air  to  an  incredible  height,  and  stand  fixed  and 
motionless  hia;h  above  all  the  surrounding:  mountains.  It  was  the 
shadow  of  Mount  Washington  projected  upon  the  dusky  curtain  of  the 
sky.  All  the  other  peaks  seemed  to  bow  their  heads  by  a  sentiment  of 
respect,  while  the  actual  and  the  spectre  mountain  exchanged  majestic 
salutations.  Then  the  vast  gray  pyramid  retreated  step  by  step  into  the 
thick  shades.     Night  fell. 

The  expected  storm  which  the  observer  had  predicted  did  not  fail  to 
put  in  an  appearance.  By  the  time  we  reached  the  house  the  wind  had 
risen  to  forty  miles   an  hour,  driving  the   clouds   in   an    unbroken  flight 


196  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

against  the  summit,  from  whicli  the)'  rebounded  with  rage  equal  to  that 
displayed  in  their  vindictive  onset.  The  Great  Gulf  was  like  the  crater 
of  some  mighty  volcano  on  the  eve  of  an  eruption,  vomiting  forth  vol- 
umes of  thickening  cloud  and  mist.  It  seemed  the  mustering- place  of 
all  the  storm-legions  of  the  Atlantic,  steadily  pouring  forth  from  its  black 
jaws,  unfurling  their  ghostly  standards  as  they  advanced  to  storm  the 
battlements  of  the  mountain.  Occasionally  a  break  in  the  column  dis- 
closed the  opposite  peaks  looming  vast  and  black  as  midnight.  Then 
the  effect  was  indescribable.  At  one  moment  everything  seemed  resolv- 
ing into  its  original  elements ;  the  next  I  was  reminded  of  a  gigantic 
mould,  not  from  mortal  hands,  in  which  all  these  vast  forms  were  slowly 
cooling.  The  moon  shed  a  pale,  wan  light  over  this  unearthly  scene,  in 
which  creation  and  annihilation  seemed  confusedly  struggling.  The  sub- 
lime drama  of  the  Fourth  Day,  when  light  was  striving  with  darkness  for 
its  allotted  place  in  the  universe,  seemed  enacting  under  my  eyes. 

The  evening  passed  in  comparative  quiet,  although  the  gale  was  now 
moving  from  east  to  west  at  the  rate  of  sixty  miles  an  hour.  Rain  rattled 
on  the  roof  like  shot.  Now  and  then  the  building  shuddered  and  creaked, 
like  a  good  ship  breasting  the  fury  of  the  gale.  Vivid  flashes  of  lightning 
made  the  well-lighted  room  momentarily  dark,  and  checked  conversation 
as  suddenly  as  if  we  had  felt  the  electric  shock.  Under  such  novel  con- 
ditions, with  strange  noises  all  about  him,  one  does  not  feel  quite  at  ease. 
Nevertheless  the  kettle  sung  on  the  stove,  the  telegraph  instrument 
ticked  on  the  table.  We  had  Fabyan's,  Littleton,  and  White  River  Junc- 
tion within  call.  We  had  plenty  of  books,  the  station  being  well  fur- 
nished from  voluntary  gifts  of  the  considerate -benevolent.  At  nine 
Doyle  went  out,  but  immediately  returned  and  said  he  had  something  to 
show  me.  I  followed  him  out  to  the  platform  behind  the  house.  A 
forest  fire  had  been  seen  all  day  in  the  direction  of  Fabyan's,  but  at  night 
it  looked  like  a  burning  lake  sunk  in  depths  of  infernal  blackness.  I 
had  never  seen  anything  so  nearly  realizing  my  idea  of  hell.  No  other 
object  was  visible — only  this  red  glare  as  of  a  sun  in  partial  eclipse  shin- 
ing at  the  bottom  of  an  immense  hole.  We  watched  it  a  few  minutes 
and  then  went  in.  I  attempted  to  be  cheerful,  but  how  was  one  to  rise 
above  such  surroundings  ?  Alternately  the  storm  roared  and  whined  for 
admittance.  Worn  out  with  the  tension,  physical  and  moral,  of  this  day, 
I  crept  into  bed  and  tried  to  shut  the  storm  out.  The  poor  exile  in  the 
next  room  murmured  to  himself,  "  Ah,  this  horrible  solitude !" 


MOUNT     WASHINGTON.  197 

The  next  morning,  while  looking  down  from  this  eagle's  nest  upon 
the  southern  peaks  to  where  the  bridle-path  could  be  distinctly  traced 
across  the  plateau,  and  still  winding  on  around  the  peaked  crest  of  Mon- 
roe, I  was  seized  with  a  longing  to  explore  the  route  which  on  a  former 
occasion  proved  so  difficult,  but  to-day  presenting  apparently  nothing 
more  serious  than  a  fatiguing  scramble  up  and  down  the  cone.  Accord- 
ingl)',  taking  leave  of  my  companion,  I  began  to  feel  my  way  down  that 
cataract  of  granite,  fallen,  it  would  seem,  from  the  skies.' 

In  proportion  as  I  descended,  the  mountain  ridge  below  regained,  little 
by  little,  its  actual  character.  Except  where  patches  of  snow  mottled  it 
with  white,  it  displayed  one  uniform  and  universal  tinge  of  faded  orange 
where  the  soft  sunshine  fell  full  upon  it,  toned  into  rusty  brown  when 
overshadowed,  gradually  deepening  to  an  intense  blue-black  in  the  ravines. 
But  so  insignificant  did  the  summits  look,  when  far  below,  that  I  hardly 
recognized  them  for  the  same  I  had  seen  from  Fabyan's  and  had  trav- 
ersed from  Crawford's.  Monroe,  the  nearest,  has,  however,  a  most  strik- 
ing resemblance  to  an  enormous  petrified  wave  on  the  eve  of  dashing  it- 
self down  into  the  vallev.  The  lower  you  descend  the  stronger  this  im- 
pression  becomes ;  but  from  the  summit  of  Mount  Washington  this  peak 
is  so  belittled  that  the  mountains  seemed  saying  to  each  othej%  "  Good- 
morning,  Mole-hill !"  "  Good-morning,  Big  Bully  !" 

When  I  reached  the  stone -corral,  the  ground,  if  ground  it  can  be 
called,  descended  less  abruptly,  over  successive  stony  terraces,  to  a  com- 
parative level,  haired  over  with  a  coarse,  wiry,  and  tangled  grass,  strewed 
with  bowlders,  and  inundated  along  its  upper  margin  by  torrents  of 
stones.  Upon  closer  inspection  these  stones  arranged  themselves  in  ir- 
regular semicircular  ridges.  In  the  eyes  of  the  botanist  and  entomolo- 
gist this  seemingly  arid  region  is  more  attractive  than  the  most  beautiful 
gardens  of  the  valley.  Among  these  grasses  and  these  stones  lie  hid  the 
beautiful  Alpine  flowers  of  which  no  species  exist  in  the  lowlands.  Only 
the  arbutus,  which  puts  forth  its  pink -and -white  flowers  earliest  of  all, 
and  is  warmed  into  life  by  the  snows,  at  all  resembles  them  in  its  habits. 
Over  this  grassy  plain  the  wind  swept  continually  and  roughly ;   but  on 

'  It  was  for  a  long  time  believed  that  the  summit  of  Mount  Washington  bore  no  marks 
of  the  great  Glacial  Period,  which  the  lamented  Agassiz  was  the  first  to  present  in  his  great 
work  on  the  glaciers  of  the  Alps.  Such  was  the  opinion  of  Dr.  C.  T.Jackson,  State  Geologist 
of  New  Hampshire.  It  is  now  announced  that  Professor  C.  H.  Hitchcock  has  detected  the 
presence  of  transported  bowlders  not  identical  with  the  rocks  in  place. 

15* 


igS  THE     HEART    OE    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

jjutting  the  grass  aside  with  the  hand,  the  tiny  blossoms  greet  you  with 
a  smile  of  bewitching  sweetness. 

These  areas,  extending;  between  and  sometimes  surroundinsf  the  hicrh 
peaks,  or  even  approaching  their  summits,  are  the  "  lawns  "  of  the  bota- 
nist, and  his  most  interesting  field  of  research.  Within  its  scope  about 
fifty  species  of  strictly  Alpine  plants  vegetate.  As  we  ascend  the  moun- 
tain, after  the  dwarf  trees  come  the  Lapland  rhododendron,  Labrador 
tea,  dwarf  birch,  and  Alpine  willows,  which,  in  turn,  give  place  to  the 
Greenland  sandwort,  diapensia,  cassiope,  and  other  plants,  with  arctic 
rushes,  sedges,  and  lichens,  which  flourish  on  the  very  summit. 

To  the  left,  this  plain,  on  which  the  grass  mournfully  rustled,  sloped 
gently  for,  I  should  guess,  half  a  mile,  and  then  rolled  heavily  off,  over 
a  grass-grown  rim,  into  Tuckerman's  Ravine.  In  this  direction  the  Car- 
ter Mountains  appeared.  Beyond,  stretching  away  out  of  the  plain,  ex- 
tended the  long  Boott's  Spur,  over  which  the  Davis  path  formerly  as- 
cended from  the  valley  of  the  Saco,  but  which  is  now,  from  long  disuse, 
traced  with  difificulty.  Between  this  headland  and  Monroe  opened  the 
valley  of  Mount  Washington  River,  the  old  Dry  River  of  the  carbuncle 
hunters,  which  the  eye  followed  to  its  junction  with  the  Saco,  beyond 
which  the  precipices  of  Frankenstein  glistened  in  the  sun,  like  a  corse- 
let of  steel.  Oakes's  Gulf  cuts  deeply  into  the  head  of  the  gorge.  The 
plain,  the  ravine,  the  spur,  and  the  gulf  transmit  the  names  of  those 
indefatigable  botanists,  Bigelow,  Tuckerman,  Boott,  and  Oakes. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  ridge — for  of  course  this  plain  has  its  ridge 
— the  ground  was  more  broken  in  its  rapid  descent  toward  the  Ammon- 
oosuc  Valley,  into  which  I  looked  over  the  right  shoulder  of  Monroe. 

But  what  a  sight  for  the  rock-wearied  eye  was  the  little  Lake  of  the 
Clouds,  cuddled  close  to  the  hairy  breast  of  this  mountain !  On  the 
instant  the  prevailing  gloom  was  lighted  as  if  by  magic  by  this  dainty 
nursling  of  the  clouds,  which  seemed  innocently  smiling  in  the  face  of 
the  hideous  mountain.  And  the  stooping  monster  seemed  to  regard 
the  little  waif,  lying  there  in  its  rocky  cradle,  with  astonishment,  and  to 
forego  his  first  impulse  to  strangle  it  where  it  lay.  Lion  and  lamb  were 
lying  down  together. 

Casting  an  eye  upward,  and  finding  the  houses  on  the  summit  were 
hidden  by  the  retreating  curvature  of  the  cone,  I  saw,  with  chagrin,  light 
mists  scudding  over  my  head.  It  was  a  notice  to  hasten  my  movements 
idle  to  disregard  here.     Crossing  as  rapidly  as  possible   Bigelow's  Lawn 


MOUNT    WASHINGTON.  199 

— the  half-mile  of  grass  ground  referred  to,  where  I  sunk  ankle -deep  in 
moss,  or  stumbled  twenty  times  in  as  many  rods  over  concealed  stones 
— I  skirted  the  head  of  the  chasm  for  some  distance.  But  from  above 
the  ravine  does  not  make  a  startling  impression.  I,  however,  discovered, 
lodged  underneath  its  walls,  a  bank  of  snow.  All  around  I  heard  water 
gurgling  under  my  feet  in  rock -worn  channels  while  making  its  way 
tranquilly  to  the  brow  of  the  ravine.  These  little  underground  runlets 
are  the  same  that  glide  over  the  head-wall,  and  are  the  head  tributaries 
of  the  Ellis.' 

Retracing  my  way  to  the  ridge  and  to  the  path,  which  I  followed 
for  some  distance,  startling  the  silence  with  an  occasional  halloo,  I  de- 
scended into  the  hollow,  where  the  Lake  of  the  Clouds  seems  to  have 
checked  itself,  white  and  still,  on  the  very  edge  of  the  tremendous  gully, 
cut  deep  into  the  western  slopes.  The  lake  is  the  fountain-head  of  the 
Ammonoosuc.  Its  waters  are  too  cold  to  nourish  any  species  of  fishes ; 
they  are  too  elevated  for  any  of  the  feathered  tribe  to  pay  it  a  visit. 

Strange  spectacle!  A  fairy  haunt,  rock -rimmed  and  fringed  about 
with  Alpine  shrubs,  half-disclosing,  half-concealing  its  bare  bosom,  coyly 
reposed  on  this  wind-swept  ridge,  like  "  a  good  deed  in  a  naughty  world." 
From  its  crystal  basin  a  tiny  rill  trickled  through  soft  moss  to  the  dizzy 
verge  beyond,  where,  like  some  airy  sprite,  clothed  with  the  rainbow  and 


'  In  going  to  and  returning  from  the  ravine,  I  must  have  walked  over  the  very  spot  which 
has  since  derived  a  tragical  interest  from  the  discovery,  in  July,  1S80,  of  a  human  skeleton 
among  the  rocks.  Three  students,  who  had  climbed  up  through  the  ravine  on  the  way  to 
tlje  summit,  stumbled  upon  the  remains.  Some  fragments  of  clothing  remained,  and  in  a 
pocket  were  articles  identifying  the  lost  man  as  Harry  W.  Hunter,  of  Pittsburg.  Pennsylvania. 
This  was  the  same  person  whom  I  had  seen  placarded  as  missing,  in  1875,  and  who  is  referred 
to  in  the  chapter  on  the  ascent  from  Crawford's.  A  cairn  and  tablet,  similar  to  those  erected 
on  the  spot  where  Miss  Bourne  perished,  had  already  been  placed  here  when  I  last  visited  the 
locality,  where  the  remains  had  so  long  lain  undiscovered  in  their  solitary  tomb.  An  inscription 
upon  the  tablet  gives  the  following  details :  "  Henry  W.  Hunter,  aged  twenty-two  years,  perished 
in  a  storm,  September  3d,  1874,  while  walking  from  the  Willey  House  to  the  summit.  Remains 
found  July  14th,  18S0,  by  a  party  of  Amherst  students."  The  place  is  conspicuous  from  the 
plain,  and  is  between  the  Crawford  Path  and  Tuckerman's.  By  going  a  few  rods  to  the  left, 
the  Summit  House,  one  mile  distant,  is  in  full  view.  This  makes  the  third  person  known  to 
have  perished  on  or  near  the  summit  of  Mount  Washington.  Young  Hunter  died  without 
a  witness  to  the  agony  of  his  last  moments.  No  search  was  made  until  nearly  a  year  had 
elapsed.  It  proved  ineffectual,  and  was  abandoned.  Thus,  strangely  and  by  chance,  was 
brought  to  light  the  fact  that  he  sunk  exhausted  and  lifeless  at  the  foot  of  the  cone  itself.  1 
can  fully  appreciate  the  nature  of  the  situation  in  which  this  too  adventurous  but  truly  un- 
fortunate climber  was  placed. 


200  THE     HEART    OF     THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 


-^s-Tinp- 


LAKE   OK   THE   CLOUDS. 


tossing  its  white  tresses  to  the  sport  of  the  breeze,  it  tripped  gayly  over 
the  grisly  precipice  and  fell  in  a  silvery  shower  from  height  to  height. 
Where  it  passed,  flowers,  ferns,  and  rich  herbage  sprung  forth  upon  the 
hard  face  of  the  granite.  Tapering  fir-trees  exhaled  a  dewy  freshness  ; 
aspens  quivered  with  the  delight  of  its  coming,  and  aged  trees,  tottering, 


MOUNT    WASHINGTOX.  20I 

decrepit,  piteous  to  see,  stretched  their  withered  limbs  toward  heaven. 
On  it  went,  and  still  on,  leaving  its  white  robe  clinging  to  the  mountain 
side.  All  the  forest  seemed  crowding  forward  to  catch  it ;  but,  now 
reverently  kissing  the  feet  of  the  old  trees,  now  saucily  flinging  a  hand- 
ful of  crystal  in  the  faces  of  scowling  cliffs,  it  eluded  the  embrace  of  the 
forest,  which  thrilled  with  its  musical  laughter  from  lowest  deeps  to  the 
summit  of  high -rocking  pines.  When  it  was  no  longer  visible  a  sono- 
rous murmur  heralded  its  triumphal  progress.  No  wonder  the  bewil- 
dered eye  roved  from  bleak  summit  to  voluptuous  vale ;  from  the  hand- 
ful of  drops  above  to  the  brimming  river  below.  The  miracle  of  Horeb 
was  being  repeated  hour  by  hour,  like  an  affair  of  every-day  life. 

This  hand-mirror  of  Venus  has  two  tiny  companion  pools  close  by. 
The  weary  explorer  may  sip  a  draught  of  sweetest  savor  while  admiring 
their  exceeding  beauty — a  beauty  heightened  by  its  unexpectedness,  and 
teachina:  that  not  all  is  barren  even  here.  A  benison  on  those  little 
lakes ! 

Stone  houses  of  refuge  arc  much  needed  on  the  mountains  over  which 
the  Crawford  trail  reaches  the  summit.  They  should  always  be  provided 
with  fagots  for  a  fire,  clean  straw  or  boughs  for  a  bed,  and  printed  direc- 
tions for  the  inexperienced  traveller  to  follow.  A  fireplace,  furnished 
with  a  crane  and  a  kettle  for  heating  water,  would  be  absolute  luxuries. 
Being  done,  this  glorious  promenade — the  equal  of  which  does  not  exist 
in  New  England — would  be  taken  with  confidence  b)-  numbers,  instead 
of,  as  now,  by  the  few.  It  is  the  appropriate  pendant  of  the  ascent  from 
the  Glen  by  the  carriage -road,  or  from  Fabyan's  by  the  railway.  One 
can  hardly  pretend  to  have  seen  the  mountains  in  their  grandest  aspects 
until  he  has  threaded  this  wondrous  picture-gallery,  this  marvellous  hall 
of  statues.^ 

While  recrossing  the  plateau,  from  which  Washington  has  the  ap- 
pearance of  one  mountain  piled  upon  another,  I  suddenly  came  upon 
a  dead  sparrow  in  my  path.  Poor  little  fellow !  he  was  too  adventurous, 
and  sunk  on  stiffening  pinions  beneath  the  frozen  wind.  Ten  steps 
farther  on  a  large  brown  butterfly  flew  up  and  fluttered  cheerily  along 
the  path.     Why,  then,  did  the  bird  die  and  the  butterfly  live .'' 

'  A  log-hut  has  been  built  near  the  summit  of  Mount  Clinton  since  this  was  written.  It  is 
a  good  deed.  But  the  long  miles  over  the  summits  remain  as  yet  neglected.  Had  one  existed 
at  the  base  of  Monroe,  it  is  probable  that  one  life,  at  least,  might  have  been  saved.  It  is  on 
the  plain  that  danger  and  difficulties  thicken. 


202  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

This  mountain  butterfly,  which  endured  cold  that  the  bird  could  not. 
has  excited  the  attention  of  naturalists,  it  is  said.  The  mountain  is 
6293  feet  high,  and  the  butterflies  never  descend  below  an  elevation  of 
abo.ut  5600  feet.  Here  they  "disport  during  the  month  of  July  of  every 
year,"  thriving  upon  the  scanty  deposits  of  honey  found  in  the  flowers 
of  the  few  species  of  hardy  plants  that  grow  in  the  crevices  of  the  rocks 
at  this  great  altitude,  and  upon  other  available  liquid  substances.  The 
insect  measures,  from  tip  to  tip  of  the  expanded  fore -wings,  about  one 
and  eight -tenths  inches.  It  is  colored  in  shades  of  brown,  with  various 
bands  and  marblings  diversifying  the  surface  of  the  wings.  The  butter- 
fly is  known  to  naturalists  as  the  CEiicis  scmidea,  and  was  first  described, 
in  1828,  by  Thomas  Say.  An  allied  species  occurs  on  Long's  Peak  and 
other  elevated  heights  in  Colorado;  and  another  is  found  at  Hopedale, 
Labrador;  but  they  are  confined  to  these  widely  separated  localities.  It 
is  surmised  that  the  butterfly,  like  the  Alpine  flora,  beautifully  illustrates 
the  presence,  or  rather  the  advance  and  retreat,  of  the  glacier. 

I  took  up  the  little  winged  chorister  of  the  vale  who  was  not  able 
to  make  spring  come  to  the  mountain  for  all  his  warbling.  Truly,  was 
not  the  little  bird's  fate  typical  of  those  ambitious  climbers  for  fame 
who,  chilled  to  death  by  neglect  or  indifference,  die  singing  on  the 
heights?  So  the  sparrow's  fall  gave  me  food  for  reflection,  during 
which  I  reached  the  little  circular  enclosure  at  the  foot  of  the  cone. 

Once  more  I  climbed  the  rambling  and  rocky  stairs  leading  to  the 
summit ;  but  long  before  reaching  it  clouds  were  drifting  above  and  be- 
low me.  The  day  was  to  end  like  so  many  others.  The  crabbed  old 
mountain  had  exhausted  his  store  of  benevolence.  I  hurried  on  down 
the  Glen  road.  After  descending  a  mile  I  heard  a  rumbling  sound, 
deep  and  prolonged,  like  distant  thunder.  The  thought  of  being  over- 
taken on  the  mountain  by  a  thunder-storm  made  me  quicken  my  pace 
almost  to  a  run.  On  turning  the  corner  where  the  snow-bank  had  lain, 
like  a  lion  in  the  path,  devoutly  wishing  myself  well  and  safely  over,  I 
felt  something  rise  in  my  throat.  The  bank  was  no  longer  there.  Ev- 
ery vestige  of  it  had  disappeared,  and,  in  all  probability,  its  sudden 
plunge  down  the  mountain  was  what  I  had  taken  for  thunder.  Ten 
minutes  sooner  and  I  should  have  been  upon  its  treacherous  bridge. 

I  passed  the  Half- Way  House,  entered  the  dusk  forest,  where  the 
tree-tops  were  swaying  wildly  to  and  fro,  the  birds  flitting  silently,  and 
the  tall  pines  discordantly  humming,  as  if  getting  the  pitch  of  the  storm. 


MOUNT    WASHINGTON.  203 

Suddenly  it  'grew  dark.  A  stream  of  fire  blinded  me  with  its  glare. 
Then  a  deafening  peal  shook  the  solid  earth.  Another  and  another  suc- 
ceeded :  Olympian  salvos  greeted  the  arrival  of  the  storm  king. 

The  rain  was  pattering  among  the  leaves  when  I  emerged  into  the 
open  vale,  guided  by  the  lights  of  the  Glen  House  shining  through  the 
darkness.  My  heavy  feet  almost  refused  to  carry  me  farther,  and  I 
walked  like  the  statue  in  "  Don  Juan." 


THIRD  JOURNEY. 


PACE 

1.   THE  PEMIGEWASSET  IX   JUNE 209 

II.  THE  FRANCONIA    PASS 224 

III.  THE  KING  OF  FRANCONIA 237 

IV,  FRANCONIA.  AND    THE  NEIGHPORHOOD 248 

V.   THE  CONNECTICUT  OX-BOW .     .  256 

VI.   THE  SACK  OF  ST.  FRANCIS  DE  SALES 259 

VII.   MOOSEHILLOCK 267 

VIII.   BETHLEHEM 276 

IX.   JEFFERSON  AND    THE   VALLEY  OF  ISRAELS  RIVER     .         ^     ...  291 

X.   THE  GREAT  NORTHERN  TEAKS 304 


THIRD  JOURNEY. 
I. 

THE    PEMIGEWASSET    IN    JUNE. 

O  child  of  that  white-crested  mountain  whose  springs 
Gush  forth  in  the  shade  of  the  cHflf-eagle's  wings, 
Down  whose  slopes  to  the  lowlands  thy  wild  waters  shine, 
Leaping  gray  walls  of  rock,  flashing  through  the  dwarf-pine ! 

WHI  TTIER. 

PLYMOUTH  lies  at  the  cntfance  to  the  Pemigevvasset  Valley,  like 
an  encampment  pitched  to  dispute  its  passage.  At  present  its  de- 
sign is  to  facilitate  the  ingress  of  tourists. 

I  am  sitting  at  the  window  this  morning  looking  down  the  Pemige- 
wasset  Valley.  It  is  a  gray,  sad  morning.  Wet  clouds  hang  and  droop 
heavily  over.  In  the  distance  the  frayed  and  tattered  edges  are  rolled 
up,  half-disclosing  the  humid  outlines  of  the  hills  on  the  other  side  of 
the  valley.  The  trees  are  budded  with  rain -drops.  Through  a  lattice 
of  bordering  foliage  I  look  down  upon  the  river,  shrunken  by  drought  to 
half  its  usual  breadth,  and  exposing  its  parched  bed  of  sand  and  pebbles. 
It  gives  an  expiring  gurgle  in  its  stony  throat.  It  is  one  of  those  morn- 
ings that,  in  spite  of  our  philosophy,  strangely  affect  the  spirits,  and  are 
like  a  presentiment  of  evil.  The  clouds  are  funereal  draperies ;  the  river 
chants  a  dirge. 

In  this  world  of  ours,  where  events  push  each  other  aside  with  such 
appalling  rapidity,  perhaps  it  is  scarcely  remembered  that  Hawthorne 
breathed  his  last  in  this  house  on  the  night  of  May  i8th,  1864.  He  who 
was  born  in  sight  of  these  mountains  had  come  among  them  to  die. 

In  company  with  his  old  college  mate  and  loving  friend.  General 
Pierce,  he  came  from  Centre  Harbor  to  Plymouth  the  day  previous  to 
the  sad  event.  Devoted  friends  —  and  few  men  have  known  more  de- 
voted— had  for  some  time  seen  that  his  days  were  numbered.     The  fire 

16 


2IO  THE     HEART     OE     THE      WHITE     MOUNTAINS.      . 

had  all  but  gone  out  from  his  eye,  which  seemed  interrogating  the  world 
of  which  he  was  already  more  than  half  an  inhabitant.  A  presentiment 
of  his  approaching  end  seemed  foreshadowed  in  the  changed  look  and 
faltering  step  of  Hawthorne  himself:  he  walked  like  a  man  consciously 
going  to  his  grave.  Still,  much  was  hoped  —  it  could  hardly  be  that 
much  was  expected — from  this  journey,  and  from  the  companionship  of 
two  men  grown  gray  with  care,  each  standing  on  the  pinnacle  of  his 
ambition,  each  disappointed,  but  united,  one  to  the  other,  by  the  ties  of 
life-long  friendship ;  turning  their  backs  upon  the  gay  world,  and  walk- 
ing hand-in-hand  among  the  sweet  groves  and  pleasant  streams  like  boys 
again.     It  was  like  a  dream  of  their  lost  youth :  the  reality  was  no  more. 

On  this  journey  General  Pierce  was  the  watchful,  tender,  and  sym- 
pathetic nurse.  Without  doubt  either  of  these  men  would  have  died  for 
the  other. 

But  these  hopes,  these  cares,  alas !  proved  delusive.  The  angel  of 
death  came  unbidden  into  the  sacred  companionship ;  the  shadow  of  his 
wings  hovered  over  them  unseen.  In  the  night,  without  a  sigh  or  a 
struggle,  as  he  himself  wished  it  might  be,  the  hand  of  death  was  gently 
and  kindly  laid  on  the  fevered  brain  and  fluttering  heart.  In  the  morn- 
ing his  friend  entered  the  chamber  to  find  only  the  lifeless  form  of  Na- 
thaniel Hawthorne  plunged  in  the  slumber  that  knows  no  awakening. 
Great  heart  and  mighty  brain  were  stilled  forever. 

While  the  weather  gives  such  inhospitable  welcome  let  us  employ 
the  time  by  turning  over  a  leaf  from  history.  According  to  Farmer,  the 
intervales  here  were  formerly  resorted  to  by  the  Indians  for  inmting  and 
fishing.  At  the  mouth  of  Baker's  River,  which  here  joins  the  Pemige- 
wasset,  they  had  a  settlement.  Graves,  bones,  gun-barrels,  besides  many 
implements  of  their  rude  husbandry,  have  been  discovered.  Here,  it  is 
said,  the  Indians  were  attacked  by  a  party  of  English  from  Haverhill, 
Massachusetts,  led  by  Captain  Baker,  who  defeated  them,  killed  many, 
and  destroyed  a  large  quantity  of  fur.  Prom  him  Baker's  River  receives 
its  name. 

Before  the  French  and  Indian  war  broke  out  this  region  was  debata- 
ble ground,  into  which  only  the  most  celebrated  and  intrepid  white  hunt- 
ers ventured.  Among  these  was  a  young  man  of  twenty -three,  named 
Stark,  who  lived  near  the  Amoskeag  Falls,  in  what  is  now  Manchester. 
In  April,  1752,  Stark  was  hunting  here  with  three  companions,  one  of 
whom  was  his  brother  William.     Thev  had  pitched  their  camp  on  Baker's 


THE    PEM JGEWASSET    IN  JUNE.  211 

River,  in  the  present  limits  of  Rumney,  and  were  prosecuting  their  hunt 
with  good  success,  when  they  suddenly  discovered  the  presence  of  In- 
dians in  their  vicinity.  Though  it  was  a  time  of  peace,  they  were  not 
the  less  apprehensive  on  that  account,  and  determined  to  change  their 
position.  But  the  Indians  had  also  discovered  the  white  hunters,  and 
prepared  to  entrap  them.  When  Stark  went  out  very  early  the  next 
morning  to  collect  the  traps  he  was  intercepted  and  made  prisoner. 
The  Indians  then  took  a  position  on  the  bank  of  the  river  to  ambush 
his  companions  as  they  came  down.  Eastman,  who  was  on  the  shore, 
next  fell  into  their  hands ;  but  the  two  others  were  in  a  canoe  floating 
quietly  down  the  stream  out  of  reach.  Stark  was  ordered  to  hail  and 
decoy  them  to  the  shore.  He  obeyed ;  but,  instead  of  lending  himself 
to  the  treachery,  shouted  to  his  friends  that  he  was  taken,  and  to  save 
themselves.  They  instantly  steered  for  the  opposite  shore,  receiving  a 
volley  as  they  did  so.  Stinson,  one  of  those  in  the  boat,  was  shot  dead  ; 
but  William  Stark  escaped  through  the  heroism  of  his  brother,  who 
knocked  up  the  guns  of  the  savages  as  they  covered  him  with  fatal  aim. 

Stark  and  his  fellow -prisoner  were  taken  to  St.  Francis  by  Actason 
and  his  prowling  band,  with  whom  they  had  had  the  misfortune  to  fall 
in.  At  St.  Francis  the  Indians  set  Stark  hoeing  their  corn.  At  first  he 
cut  up  the  corn  and  spared  the  weeds ;  but  this  expedient  not  serving  to 
relieve  him  of  the  drudgery,  he  threw  his  hoe  into  the  river,  telling  his 
captors  that  hoeing  corn  was  the  business  of  squaws,  not  of  warriors. 
This  answer  procured  him  recognition  among  them  as  a  spirit  worthy 
of  themselves.  He  was  adopted  into  the  tribe,  and  called  the  "  Young 
Chief."  The  promise  of  youth  was  fulfilled.  The  young  hunter  of  the 
White  Mountains  and  the  conqueror  of  Bennington  are  the  same. 

The  choice  is  open  to  leave  the  railway  here  and  enter  the  moun- 
tains by  the  Pemigewasset  Valley,  or  to  continue  by  it  the  route  which 
conducts  to  the  summit  of  Mount  Washington,  by  Bethlehem  and  Fa- 
byan's.  To  journey  on  by  rail  to  the  Profile  House  is  seventy-five  miles, 
while  by  the  common  road,  following  the  Pemigewasset,  the  distance  is 
only  thirty  miles.  A  daily  stage  passes  over  this  route,  which  I  risk 
nothing  in  saying  is  always  one  of  the  delightful  reminiscences  of  the 
whole  journey.  Deciding  in  favor  of  the  last  excursion,  my  first  care 
was  to  procure  a  conveyance. 

At  three  in  the  afternoon  I  set  out  for  Campton,  seven  miles  up  the 
valley,  which  the   carriage -road   soon   enters   upon,  and  which   by  a  few 


212  THE     HEART    OE    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

unregarded  turnings  is  presently  as  fast  shut  up  as  if  its  mountain  gates 
had  in  rcaHty  swung  noiselessly  together  behind  you.  Hardly  had  I 
recovered  from  the  effect  of  the  deception  produced  by  seeing  the  same 
mountain  first  in  front,  next  on  my  right  hand,  and  then  shifted  over  to 
the  other  side  of  the  valley,  when  I  saw,  spanned  by  a  high  bridge,  the 
river  in  violent  commotion  far  down  below  me. 

The  Pemiorewasset,  confined  here  between  narn)w  banks,  has  cut  for 
itself  two  deep  channels  through  its  craggy  and  cavernous  bed ;  but  one 
of  these  being  dammed  for  the  purpose  of  deepening  the  other,  the  gen- 
eral picturesqueness  of  the  fall  is  greatly  diminished.  Still,  it  is  a  pretty 
and  engaging  sight,  this  cataract,  especially  if  the  river  be  full,  although 
you  think  of  a  mettled  Arabian  harnessed  in  a  tread-mill  when  you  look 
at  it.  Livermore  Fall,  as  it  is  called,  is  but  two  miles  from  Pl\'mouth, 
the  white  houses  of  which  look  hot  in  the  same  brilliant  sunlight  that 
falls  so  gently  upon  the  luxuriant  green  of  the  valley.  The  feature  of 
this  fall  is  the  deep  water-worn  chasm  through  which  it  plunges. 

By  crossing  the  bridge  here  the  left  bank  of  the  stream  may  be  fol- 
lowed, the  valley  towns  of  Campton,  Thornton,  and  Woodstock  being- 
divided  by  it  into  numerous  villages  or  hamlets,  frequently  puzzling  the 
uninitiated  traveller,  who  has  set  out  in  all  confidence,  but  who  is  seized 
by  the  most  cruel  perplexity,  upon  hearing  that  there  are  four  villages 
in  Campton,  each  several  miles  distant  from  the  other.  One  would  have 
pleased  him  far  better. 

Crossing  this  bridge,  and  descending  to  the  level  meadow  below  the 
falls,  I  made  a  brief  inspection  of  the  establishment  for  breeding  and 
stocking  with  trout  and  salmon  the  depleted  mountain  streams  of  New 
Hampshire.  The  breeding-house  and  basins  are  situated  just  below  the 
falls,  on  the  banks  of  the  river.  This  is  a  work  undertaken  by  the  State, 
with  the  expectation  of  repeopling  its  rivers,  brooks,  and  ponds  with  their 
finny  inhabitants.  All  those  streams  immediately  accessible  from  the  vil- 
lages are  so  persistently  fished  by  the  inhabitants  as  to  afford  little  sport 
to  the  angler  from  a  distance,  who  is  compelled  to  go  farther  and  fare 
worse ;  but  the  State  is  certainly  entitled  to  much  credit  for  its  endeavor 
to  make  two  trout  grow  where  only  one  grew  before.  It  is  feared,  how- 
ever, that  the  experiment  of  stocking  the  Pemigewasset  with  salmon  will 
not  prove  successful.  The  farmers  who  live  along  the  banks  say  that 
one  of  these  fish  is  rarely  seen,  although  the  fishery  is  protected  by  the 
most  ri^id  regulations.     No  one  who  has  not  visited  the  mountains  be- 


THE     PE MI GEW ASSET    IN  JUNE. 


21 


twcen   May   ist  —  the  earn 
est    date    when    fishing    is 
permitted — and  the  middle 
of  June,  can  have  an  idea  of 
the  number  of  sportsmen  every 
year     resorting     to     the     trout 
streams,  or    of    the    unheard-of 
drain  upon  those  streams.     Not 


ON    THE   PROFILE   ROAU. 


214  ^^^     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

the  least  of  many  ludicrous  sights  I  have  witnessed  was  that  of  a  man, 
weighing  two  hundred  pounds,  excitedly  swinging  aloft  a  trout  weigh- 
ing less  than  two  ounces,  and  this  trophy  he  exhibited  to  me  with  un- 
feigned triumph — the  butcher!  This  is  mere  slaughter,  and  ought  not 
to  be  tolerated.  A  pretty  sight  is  to  see  the  breeding-trout  follow  you 
in  your  walk  around  the  margin  of  tlicir  little  basin  to  be  fed  from 
your  hand.     They  are  tame  as  pigeons  and  ravenous  as  sharks. 

Mount  Prospect,  in  Holderness,  is  the  first  landmark  of  note.  It 
is  seen,  soon  after  leaving  Plymouth,  rising  from  the  opposite  side  of 
the  valley,  its  green  crest  commanding  a  superb  view  of  the  lake  region 
below,  and  of  the  lofty  Franconia  Mountains  above.  It  is  worth  ascend- 
ing this  mountain  were  it  only  to  see  again  the  beautiful  islet-spotted 
Squam  Lake  and  far-reaching  Winnipiseogee  quivering  in  noonday 
splendor. 

The  beautiful  valley  is  now  open  throughout  its  whole  extent.  Of 
course  I  refer  only  to  that  portion  lying  above  Plymouth.  But  it  is  an 
anomaly  of  mountain  valleys.  Its  length  is  about  twenty-five  miles,  and 
its  greatest  width,  I  should  judge,  not  more  than  three  or  four.  For 
twenty  miles  it  is  almost  as  straight  as  an  arrow.  There  is  nothing  to 
hinder  a  perfectly  free  and  open  view  up  or  down.  Contrast  this  with 
the  wilful  and  tortuous  windings  of  the  Ammonoosuc,  or  the  Saco,  which 
seem  to  grope  and  feel  their  way  foot  by  foot  along  their  cramped  and 
crooked  channels.  The  angle  of  ascent,  too,  is  here  so  gradual  as  to  be 
scarcely  noticed  until  the  foot  of  the  mountain  wall,  at  its  head,  is 
reached.  True,  this  valley  is  not  clothed  with  a  feeling  of  overpowering 
grandeur,  but  it  is  beautiful.     It  is  not  terrible,  but  bewitching. 

The  vista  of  mountains  on  the  east  side  of  the  valley  becomes  every 
moment  more  and  more  extended,  and  more  and  more  interesting.  A 
long  array  of  summits  trending  away  to  the  north,  with  detached  moun- 
tains heaved  above  the  lower  clusters,  like  great  whales  sporting  in  a 
frozen  sea,  is  gradually  uncovered.  Green  as  a  carpet,  level  as  a  floor, 
the  valley,  adorned  with  clumps  of  elms,  groves  of  maples,  and  strips  of 
tilled  land  of  a  rich  chocolate  brown,  makes  altogether  a  picture  which 
sets  the  eye  fairly  dancing.  Even  the  daisies,  the  clover,  and  the  butter- 
cups which  so  plentifully  spangle  the  meadows  seem  far  brighter  and 
sweeter  in  this  atmosphere,  nodding  a  playful  welcome  as  you  pass 
them  by.     We  are  in  the  country  of  flowers. 

Since  passing   Blair's  and  the  bridge  over  the  river  to  Campton  Hoi- 


THE     PEMJGEWASSET    IN  JUXE.  215 

low  I  was  on  the  alert  for  that  first  and  most  engaging  view  of  the 
P'ranconia  Mountains  which  has  been  so  highly  extolled.  Perhaps  I 
should  say  that  one  poetic  nature  has  revealed  it  to  a  thousand  others. 
Without  doubt  this  landscape  is  the  more  striking  because  it  is  the  first, 
and  consequently  deepest,  impression  of  grand  mountain  scenery  ob- 
tained by  those  upon  whom  at  a  turn  of  the  road,  and  without  premoni- 
tion, it  flashes  like  the  realization  of  some  ecstatic  vision. 

Half  a  mile  below  the  little  hamlet  of  West  Campton  the  road 
crosses  the  point  of  a  hill  pushed  well  out  into  the  valley.  It  is  here 
that  the  circlet  of  mountains  is  seen  enclosing  the  valley  on  all  sides 
like  a  gigantic  palisade.  In  one  place,  far  away  in  the  north,  this  wall 
is  shattered  to  its  centre,  like  the  famous  Breach  of  Roland;  and  through 
this  enormous  loop-hole  we  see  golden  mists  rising  above  the  undiscov- 
ered country  beyond.  We  are  looking  through  the  far-famed  P'ranconia 
Notch.  On  one  side  the  clustered  peaks  of  Lafayette  lift  themselves 
serenely  into  the  sky.  On  the  left  a  silvery  light  is  playing  on  the 
ledges  of  Mount  Cannon,  softening  all  the  asperities  of  this  stern-visaged 
mountain.  The  two  great  groups  now  stand  full}'  and  finely  exposed; 
though  the  lower  and  nearer  summits  are  blended  with  the  higher  by 
distance.  Remark  the  difference  of  outline.  A  series  of  humps  marks 
the  crest-line  of  the  group,  which  culminates  in  the  oblique  wall  of  Mount 
Cannon.  On  the  contrary,  that  on  the  right,  culminating  in  Lafayette, 
presents  two  beautiful  and  regular  pyramids,  older  than  Cheops,  which 
sometimes  in  early  morning  exactly  resemble  two  stately  monuments, 
springing  alert  and  vigorous  as  the  day  which  gilds  them.  At  a  dis- 
tance of  twenty  miles  it  demands  good  eyes  and  a  clear  atmosphere  to 
detect  the  supporting  lines  of  these  pyramidal  structures,  which  in  real- 
ity are  two  separate  mountains,  Liberty  and  Flume.  This  exquisite 
landscape  seldom  fails  of  producing  a  rapturous  outburst  from  those 
who  are  making  the  journey  for  the  first  time. 

There  are  many  points  of  resemblance  between  this  view  and  that 
of  the  White  Mountains  from  Conway  Corner.  Both  unfold  at  once, 
and  in  a  single  glance,  the  principal  systems  about  which  all  the  subor- 
dinate chains  seem  manoeuvrinsc  under  the  commandinsf  sraze  of  Wash- 
ington  or  Lafayette. 

Soon  after  starting  it  was  evident  that  my  driver's  loquaciousness 
was  due  to  his  having  "  crooked  his  elbow "  too  often  while  loitering 
about   Plymouth.      The   frequent  plunge   of  the  wheels    into  the  ditches 


2l6  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOL'XTAIXS. 

by  the  roadside,  accompanied  with  a  shower  of  mud,  was  Httle  conducive 
to  the  calm  and  free  enjoyment  of  the  beauties  of  the  landscape.  The 
driver  alone  was  unconcerned,  and  as  often  as  good  fortune  enabled 
him  to  steer  clear  of  upsetting  his  passengers  would  articulate,  thickly, 
"  Don't  be  alarmed,  Cap' :  no  one  was  ever  hurt  on  this  road." 

Silently  committing  myself  to  that  Providence  which  is  said  to  watch 
over  the  destinies  of  tipplers,  I  breathed  freely  only  when  we  drew  \\\y 
at  th,e  hospitable  door  of  the  village  inn,  bespattered  with  mud,  but  with 
no  broken  bones. 

Sanborn's,  at  West  Campton,  is  the  old  road-side  inn  that  long  ago 
swung  the  stag-and-hounds  as  its  distinctive  emblem.  A  row  of  superb 
maples  shades  the  road.  Here  we  have  fairly  entered  the  renowned 
intervales,  that  gleam  among  the  darker  forests  or  groves  like  patches 
of  blue  in  a  storm -clouded  sky.  Looking  southward,  across  the  level 
meadows,  the  hills  of  Rumney  flinging  up  smooth,  firm  curves,  and  the 
more  distant,  downward -plunging  outline  of  Mount  Prospect,  in  Hold- 
erness,  close  the  valley.  Upon  the  left,  where  the  clearings  extend  cjuite 
to  the  summits  of  the  near  hills,  the  maple  groves  interspersed  among 
them  resemble  soldiers  advancing  up  the  green  slopes  in  columns  of 
attack.  Following  this  line  a  little,  the  valley  of  Mad  River  is  distin- 
guished by  the  deep  trough  through  which  it  descends  from  the  moun- 
tains of  Waterville.  And  here,  peering  over  the  nearer  elevations,  the 
huge  blue-black  mass  of  Black  Mountain  flings  two  splendid  peaks  aloft. 

For  a  more  intimate  acc|uaintance  with  these  surroundings  the  hill- 
side pasture  above  the  school -house  gives  a  perspective  of  greater 
breadth  ;  while  that  from  the  Ellsworth  road  is  in  some  respects  finer 
still.  About  two  miles  up  this  road  the  valley  of  the  East  Branch,  show- 
ing the  massive  Mount  Hancock,  cicatriced  with  one  long,  narrow  scar, 
is  lifted  into  view.  The  other  features  of  the  landscape  remain  the 
same,  except  tliat  Mount  Cannon  is  now  cut  off  by  the  hill  rising  to 
the  north  of  us.  As  often  as  one  of  these  hidden  valleys  is  thus 
revealed  we  are  seized  with  a  longing  to  explore  it. 

One  need  not  push  inquiry  into  the  antecedents  of  Campton  or  the 
neighboring  villages  very  far.  The  township  was  originally  granted  to 
General  Jabez  Spencer,  of  East  Haddam,  Connecticut,  in  1761.  In  176.S 
a  few  families  had  come  into  Campton,  Plvmouth,  Hebron,  Sandwich, 
Rumney,  Holderness,  and  Bridgewater.  No  opening  had  been  made 
for  civilized  men   on  this  side  of  Canada  except  for  three  families,  who 


THE    PEMIGE  IV A  SSET    IN  J  UNE . 


217 


had     gone      fifty 
miles  into  the  wil- 
derness to  begin  a  settlement  where 
Lancaster   now   is.      The    name   is 
derived  simply  from  the  circumstance 
that   the   first   proprietors    built    a   camp 
when     they    visited    their     grant.      The      weixh  mountain,  i-rom  mad  river. 

17 


2l8  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

different  villages  arc  much  frequented  by  artists,  who  have  spread  the 
fame  of  Campton  from  one  end  of  the  Union  to  the  other.  But  a 
serpent  has  entered  even  this  Eden  —  the  villagers  are  sighing  for  the 
advent  of  the  railway. 

Having  dedicated  one  day  to  an  exploration  of  the  Mad  River  Valley, 
I  can  pronounce  it  well  worth  any  tourist's  while  to  tarry  long  enough  in 
the  vicinitv  for  the  purpose.  It  is  certainly  one  of  the  finest  exhibitions 
of  mountain  scenery  far  or  near.  Here  is  a  valley  twelve  miles  long,  at 
the  bottom  of  which  a  rapid  river  bruises  itself  on  a  bed  of  broken  rock, 
while  above  it  are  heaped  mountains  to  be  picked  out  of  a  thousand  for 
peculiarity  of  form  or  structure.  The  Pemigewasset  is  passed  by  a  ford 
just  deep  enough  at  times  to  invest  the  journey  with  a  little  healthy 
excitement  at  the  very  beginning.  The  ford  has,  however,  been  carefully 
marked  by  large  stones  placed  at  the  edge  of  the  submerged  road. 

Fording  the  river  and  climbing  the  hill  which  lies  across  the  en- 
trance to  this  land-locked  valley,  I  was  at  once  ushered  upon  a  scene  of 
great  and  varied  charm.  Right  before  me,  sunning  his  three  peaks  four 
thousand  feet  above,  was  the  prodigious  mass  of  Black  Mountain.  Far 
up  the  valley  it  stretched,  forming  an  unbroken  wall  nearly  ten  miles 
long,  and  apparently  sealing  all  access  from  the  Sandwich  side.  A 
nipple,  a  pyramid,  and  a  flattened  mound  protruding  from  the  summit 
ridge  constitute  these  eminences,  easily  recognized  from  the  Franconia 
highway  among  a  host  of  lesser  peaks.  At  the  southern  end  of  this 
mountain  the  range  is  broken  through,  giving  passage  to  a  rough  and 
strasfslins:  road  —  fourteen  hundred  feet  above  the  sea -level  —  to  Sand- 
wich  Centre,  and  to  the  lake  towns  south  of  it.  This  pass  is  known 
as  Sandwich  Notch. 

Campton  Village  lies  along  the  hill-slope  opposite  to  Black  Mountain. 
Completely  does  it  fill  the  artistic  sense.  Its  situation  leaves  nothing  to 
be  desired  in  an  ideal  mountain  village.  So  completely  is  it  secluded 
from  the  rest  of  the  world  by  its  environment  of  mountains,  that  you 
might  pass  and  repass  the  Pemigewasset  Valley  a  hundred  times  with- 
out once  surprising  the  secret  of  its  existence.  All  those  houses,  half 
hid  beneath  groves  of  maples,  bespeak  luxurious  repose.  Opposite  to 
Black  Mountain,  whose  dark  forest  drapery  hides  the  mass  of  the  moun- 
tain, is  the  immense  whitish-yellow  rock  called  Welch  Mountain.  Only 
a  scanty  vegetation  is  suffered  to  creep  among  the  crevices.  It  is  really 
nothing  but   a  big  excrescent   rock,  having   a  principal   summit  shaped 


THE     FEM JGEWASSET    JN  JUNE.  219 

somewhat  like  a  Martcllo  tower;  and,  indeed,  resembling  one  in  ruins. 
The  bright  ledges  brilliantly  reflect  the  sun,  causing  the  eye  to  turn 
gratefully  to  the  sombre  gloom  of  the  evergreens  crowding  the  sides  of 
the  neighboring  mountains.  Welch  Mountain  reminded  me,  I  hardly 
know  why,  of  Chocorua;  but  the  resemblance  can  scarcely  extend  far- 
ther than  to  the  meagreness,  mutually  characteristic,  and  to  the  blistered, 
almost  calcined  ledges,  which  in  each  case  catch  the  earliest  and  latest 
beams  of  day.  In  fact,  I  could  think  only  of  a  leper  sunning  his  scars, 
and  in  rags. 

At  the  head  of  the  vale,  alternately  coming  into  and  retreating  from 
view  —  for  we  are  still  progressing  —  is  the  mysterious  triple -crowned 
mountain  known  on  the  maps  as  Tripyramid.  When  first  seen  it  seems 
standing  solitary  and  alone,  and  to  have  wrapped  itself  in  a  veil  of  thin- 
nest gauze.  As  we  advance  it  displays  the  white  streak  of  an  immense 
slide,  which  occurred  in  1869.  This  mountain  is  visible  from  the  shore 
of  the  lake  at  Laconia.  It  is  one  of  the  first  to  greet  us  from  the  ele- 
vated summits,  though  from  no  point  is  its  singularly  admirable  and 
well-proportioned  architecture  so  advantageously  exhibited  as  when  ap- 
proaching by  this  valley.  Its  northern  peak  stands  farthest  from  the 
others,  yet  not  so  far  as  to  mar  the  general  grace  and  harmony  of  form. 
Hail  to  thee,  mountain  of  the  high,  heroic  crest,  for  thy  fortunate  name 
and  the  gracious,  kingly  mien  with  which  thou  wearest  thy  triple  crown ! 
Prince  thou  art  and  potentate.  None  approach  thy  forest  courts  but  do 
thee  homage. 

The  end  of  the  valley  was  reached  in  two  hours  of  very  leisurely 
driving.  The  road  abruptly  terminated  among  a  handful  of  houses  scat- 
tered about  the  bottom  of  a  deep  and  narrow  vale.  This  is,  beyond 
cjuestion,  the  most  remarkable  mountain  glen  into  which  civilization  has 
thus  far  penetrated.  On  looking  up  at  the  big  mountains  one  experi- 
ences a  half-stifled  feeling;  and,  on  lookins:  around  the  scattered  hamlet, 
its  dozen  houses  seem  undergoing  perpetual  banishment. 

This  diminutive  settlement,  in  which  signs  of  progress  and  decay 
stand  side  by  side  —  progress  evidenced  by  new  and  showy  cottages; 
decay  by  abandoned  and  dilapidated  ones — is  at  the  edge  of  a  region 
as  shaggy  and  wild  as  any  in  the  famed  Adirondack  wilderness.  It 
fairly  jostles  the  wilderness.  It  braves  it.  It  is  really  insolent.  Yet  are 
its  natural  resources  so  slender  that  the  struggle  to  keep  the  breath  in 
it  must  have   been   long   and   obstinate.      A   wheezy   saw -mill   indicates 


220 


THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 


liLACK    AND   THII'VKAMID    MOUNTAINS. 


at    once    its    origin    and    its 
-•     means  of  livelihood ;  but  it  is  ev- 
ident  that  it   might  have   remained 
obscure  and   unknown   until  dooms- 
day, had  not  a  few  anglers  stumbled 
upon    it   while    in   pursuit   of   brooks    and 
waters  new. 
The  glen  is  surrounded  by  peaks  that  for 
boldness,  savage    freedom,  and    power    challenge     any 
that  we  can   remember.      They  threaten   while  maintain- 
ing an  attitude  of  loftv  scorn  for  the  saucy  intruder.      The  curious  Noon 
Peak  —  wc  have  at  Icntrth  ""ot  to  the   end   of   the   almost   endless   Black 


THE    PE  MI  GEW  ASSET    IN  JUNE.  22  t 

Mountain — nods  familiarly  from  the  south.  It  long  stood  for  a  sun-dial 
for  the  settlement ;  hence  its  name.  Tecumsch,  a  noble  mountain,  and 
Osceola,  its  worthy  companion,  rise  to  the  north.  A  short  walk  in  this 
direction  brings  Kancamagus'  and  the  gap  between  this  mountain  and 
Osceola  into  view.  All  these  mountains  stand  in  the  magnificent  order 
in  which  they  were  first  placed  by  Nature ;  but  never  does  the  idea  of 
inertia,  of  helpless  immobility,  cross  the  mind  of  the  beholder  for  a  single 
moment. 

The  unvisited  region  between  Greeley's,  in  Waterville,  and  the  Saco 
is  destined  to  be  one  of  the  favorite  haunts  of  the  sportsman,  the  angler, 
and  the  lover  of  the  grand  old  woods.  It  is  crossed  and  recrossed  by 
swift  streams,  sown  with  lakes,  glades,  and  glens,  and  thickly  set  with 
mountains,  among  which  the  timid  deer  browses,  and  the  bear  and  wild- 
cat roam  unmolested.  Fish  and  game,  untamed  and  untrodden  moun- 
tains and  woods,  welcome  the  sportsman  here.  With  Greeley's  for  a  base, 
encampments  may  be  pitched  in  the  forest,  and  exploration  carried  into 
the  most  out-of-the-way  corners.  The  full  zest  of  such  a  life  can  only 
be  understood  by  those  to  whom  its  freedom  and  unrestraint,  its  health- 
ful and  vigorous  existence,  have  already  proved  their  charm.  The  time 
may  come  when  the  mountains  shall  be  covered  with  a  thousand  tents, 
and  the  summer- dwellers  will  resemble  the  tribes  of  Israel  encamped  by 
the  sweet  waters  of  Sion. 

Waterville  maintains  unfrequent  communication  with  Livermore  and 
the  Saco  by  a  path  twelve  miles  long — constructed  by  the  Appalachian 
Mountain  Club — over  which  a  few  pedestrians  pass  every  year.  I  have 
explored  this  path  for  several  miles  beyond  Beckytown  while  visiting  the 
great  slide  which  sloughed  off  from  the  side  of  Tripyramid,  and  the  cas- 
cades on  the  way  to  it.  Osceola,  Hancock,  and  Carrigain,  three  remark- 
ably fine  mountains,  offer  inviting  excursions  to  expert  climbers.  I  was 
reluctantly  compelled  to  renounce  the  intention  of  passing  over  the 
whole  route,  which  should  occupy,  at  least,  two  days  or  parts  of  days, 
one  night  being  spent  in  camp. 

The  Mad  River  drive  is  a  delightful  episode.  In  the  way  of  moun- 
tain valley  there  is  nothing  like  it.  Bold  crag,  furious  torrent,  lonely 
cabin,  blue  peak,  deep  hollow,  choked  up  with  the  densest  foliage,  con- 
stitute its  varied  and  ever -changing  features.     The  overhanging  woods 

'  Kancamagus,  the  Pcnnaccok  sachem,  led  the  Indian  assault  on  Dover,  in  1689. 


222  THE     HEART    OE    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 


I^Q      musical  with  birds,  and  ex- 
~^ "      haling  a  thousand  perfumes. 


THE     PEM IGEW ASSET    IN  JUNE.  223 

The  remainder  of  the  route  up  tlie  Pemigewasset  is  more  and  more 
a  revelation  of  the  august  summits  that  have  so  constantly  met  us  since 
entering  this  lovely  valley.  Boldly  emerging  from  the  mass  of  moun- 
tains, they  present  themselves  at  every  mile  in  new  combinations. 
Through  Thornton  and  Woodstock  the  spectacle  continues  almost 
without  intermission.  Gradually,  the  finely -pointed  peaks  of  the  Lafa\- 
ette  group  deploy  and  advance  toward  us.  Now  they  pitch  sharply 
down  into  the  valley  of  the  East  Branch.  Now  the  great  shafts  of  stone 
are  crusted  with  silvery  light,  or  sprayed  with  the  cataract.  Now  the 
sun  gilds  the  slides  that  furrow,  but  do  not  deface  them.  Stay  a  mo- 
ment at  this  rapid  brook  that  comes  hastening  from  the  west !  It  is  an 
envoy  from  yonder  great,  billowy  mountain  that  lords  it  so  proudly  over 

"many  a  namelL'ss  slide-scarred  crest 
And  pine-dark  gorge  between." 

That  is  Moosehillock.  Facing  again  the  north,  the  road  is  soon  swal- 
lowed up  by  the  forest,  and  the  forest  by  the  mountains.  A  few  poor 
cottages  skirt  the  route.  .Still  ascending,  the  miles  grow  longer  and  less 
interesting,  until  the  white  house,  first  seen  from  far  below,  suddenly 
stands  uncovered  at  the  left.  We  are  at  the  Flume  House,  and  before 
the  gates  of  the  Franconia  Notch. 


224 


THE    HEART    OE    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 


II. 

THE    FRANCONIA    PASS. 

Beyond  them,  like  a  sun-rimmed  cloud. 

The  great  Notch  Mountains  shone, 
Watched  over  by  the  solemn-browed 

And  awful  face  of  stone  I—Whittier.. 

WHEN  Boswell  exclaimed  in  ecstasy,  "An  immense  mountain!" 
Dr.  Johnson  sneered,  "An  immense  protuberance!"  but  he,  the 
sublime  cynic,  became  respectful  before  leaving  the  Hebrides.  Charles 
Lamb,  too,  at  one  time  pretended  something  approaching  contempt  for 
mountains ;  but,  after  a  visit  to  Coleridge,  lie  made  the  cDiicndc  honora- 
ble in  these  terms : 

"  I  feel  I  shall  remember  your  mountains  to  the  last  day  of  my  life. 
They  haunt  me  perpetually.  I  am  like  a  man  who  has  been  falling  in 
love  unknown  to  himself;  which  he  finds  out  when  he  leaves  the  lady." 

Notwithstanding  their  prepossessions  against  nature,  and  their  un- 
disguised preference  for  the  smoke  and  dirt  of  London,  the  mountains 
awoke  something  in  these  two  men  which  was  apparently  a  revelation 
of  themselves  unto  themselves.  I  have  felt  a  higher  respect  for  both 
since  I  knew  that  they  loved  mountains,  as  I  pity  those  who  have  only 
seen  heaven  through  the  smoke  of  the  city.  It  is  not  easy  to  explain 
two  ideas  so  essentially  opposite  as  are  presented  in  the  earlier  and 
later  declarations  of  these  widely  famous  authors,  unless  we  agree,  keep- 
ing "  Elia's  "  odd  simile  in  mind,  that  in  the  first  case  they  should,  like 
woman,  be  taken,  not  at  what  she  says,  but  what  she  means. 

The  Flume  House  is  the  proper  tarrying- place  for  an  investigation 
of  the  mountain  o-oro-e  from  which  it  derives  both  its  custom  and  its 
name.  It  is  also  placed  opposite  to  the  Pool,  another  of  those  natural 
wonders  with  which  the  pass  is  crowded,  and  which  tempt  us  at  every 
step  to  turn  aside  from  the  travelled  road. 

Fronting  the   hotel  is   a  belt  of  woods,  with  two  massive  mountains 


77/  E     FR  A  X C  O  XJA     PA  S  S. 


225 


rising  behind.  In  the  concealment  of  these  woods  the  Pemigewasset, 
contracted  to  a  modest  stream,  runs  along  the  foot  of  the  mountains. 
A  rough,  zigzag  path  leads  through  the  woods  to  the  river  and  to  the 
Pool.  Now  raise  the  eyes  to  the  summit -ridge  of  yonder  mountain. 
The  peak  finely  reproduces  the  features  of  a  gigantic  human  face,  while 
the  undulations  of  the  ridge  fairly  suggest  a  recumbent  human  figure 
wrapped  in  a  shroud.  The  outlines  of  the  forehead  and  nose  are  curi- 
ously like  the  profile  of  Washington ;  hence  the  colossal  figure  is  called 
Washington  Lying  in  State.  This  immortal  sculpture  gave  rise  to  the 
idea  that  the  tomb  of  Washington,  like 
that  of  Desaix,  on  the  St.  Bernard, 
should  be  on  the  great  summit  that 
bears  his  name. 

From  the  Flume  House  I  looked  up 
through  the  deep  cleft  of  the  Notch — 
an  impressive  vista.  To  the  left  is  Can- 
non, or  Profile  Mountain ;  to  the  right 
the  beetlino:  cra^s  of  Easfle  Cliff;  then 
the  pointed,  shapely  peaks  of  Lafay- 
ette ;  and  so  the  range  continues  break- 
ing off  and  off,  bending  away  into  lesser 
mountains  that  finally  melt  into  pale- 
blue  shadows.  Now  a  stray  cloud  atop 
a  peak  gives  it  a  volcanic  character. 
Now  a  puff  scatters  it  like  thistle-down. 
It  is  a  sultry  summer's  morning,  and 
banks  of  film  hang  like  huge  spider's- 
webs  in  the  tree -tops.  Soon  they  de- 
tach themselves,  and,  floating  lazily  upward,  are  seized  by  a  truant 
breeze,  spun  mischievously  round,  and  then  settle  quietly  down  on  the 
highest  peaks  like  young  eaglets  on  their  nest. 

Let  us  first  walk  down  to  the  Pool.  This  Pool  is  a  caprice  of  the 
river.  Imagine  a  cistern,  deeply  sunk  in  granite,  receiving  at  one  end 
a  weary  cascade,  which  seems  to  crave  a  moment's  rest  before  hurrying 
on  down  the  rocky  pass.  In  the  mystery  and  seclusion  of  ages,  and 
with  only  the  rude  implements  picked  up  by  the  way,  the  river  has  hol- 
lowed a  basin  a  hundred  feet  wide  and  forty  deep  out  of  the  stubborn 
rock.     Without   doubt  Nature   thus  first   taught    us    to  cut   the   hardest 

iS 


A    GLIMFSfc.    Oh     IHE    FuUL. 


226  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

marble  with  sand  and  water.  Cliffs  traversed  by  cracks  rise  a  hun- 
dred feet  higher.  The  water  is  a  glossy  and  lustrous  sea-green,  and  of 
such  marvellous  transparency  that  you  see  the  brilliant  pebbles  sparkling 
at  the  bottom,  shiftina;  with  the  waves  of  li2:ht  like  bits  of  sjlass  in  a 
kaleidoscope.  Overtopping  trees  lean  timidly  over  and  peer  down  into 
tlie  Pool,  which  coldly  repulses  their  shadows.  Only  the  colorless  hue 
of  the  rocks  is  reflected;  and  the  stranger,  seeing  an  old  man  with  a 
gray  beard  standing  erect  in  a  boat,  has  no  other  idea  than  that  he  has 
arrived  on  the  borders  and  is  to  be  accosted  by  the  ferryman  of  Hades. 

The  Flume  is  reached  by  going  down  the  road  a  short  distance,  and 
then  diverging:  to  the  left  and  crossine^  the  river  to  the  Flume  Brook. 
A  carriage-way  conducts  almost  to  the  entrance  of  the  gorge.  Then  be- 
gins an  easy  and  interesting  promenade  up  the  bed  of  the  brook. 

This  is  a  remarkable  rock-gallery,  driven  several  hundred  feet  into 
the  heart  of  the  mountain,  through  which  an  ice-cold  brook  rushes. 
The  miracle  of  Moses  seems  repeated  here  sublimely.  Some  unknown 
])ower  smote  the  rock,  and  the  prisoned  stream  gushed  forth  free  and 
lightsome  as  air.  You  approach  it  over  broad  ledges  of  freckled  granite, 
polished  by  the  constant  flow  of  a  thin,  pellucid  sheet  of  water  to  slip- 
pery smoothness.  Proceeding  a  short  distance  up  this  natural  esplanade, 
you  enter  a  damp  and  gloomy  fissure  between  perpendicular  walls,  ris- 
ing seventy  feet  above  the  stream,  and,  on  lifting  your  eyes  suddenly, 
espy  an  enormous  bowlder  tightly  wedged  between  the  clif¥s.  Now  try 
to  imagine  a  force  capable  of  grasping  the  solid  rock  and  dividing  it  in 
halves  as  easily  as  you  w^ould  an  apple  with  your  two  hands. 

At  sight  of  the  suspended  bowlder,  which  seems,  like  Paul  Pry,  to 
liave  "just  dropped  in,"  I  believe  every  visitor  has  his  moment  of  hesita- 
tion, which  he  usually  ends  by  passing  underneath,  paying  as  he  goes 
with  a  tremor  of  the  nerves,  more  or  less,  for  his  temerity.  But  there 
is  no  clanger.  It  is  seen  that  the  deep  crevice,  into  whicli  the  rock 
seems  jammed  with  the  especial  purpose  of  holding  it  asunder,  also  hugs 
the  intruder  like  a  vise ;  so  closely,  indeed,  that,  according  to  every  ap- 
pearance, it  must  stay  where  it  is  until  doomsday,  unless  released  by 
some  passing  earthquake  from  its  imprisonment.  Sentimental  tourists 
do  not  omit  to  find  a  moral  in  this  curiosity,  which  really  looks  to  be 
on  the  eve  of  dropping,  with  a  loud  splash,  into  tlie  torrent  beneath. 
On  top  of  the  cliffs  I  picked  up  a  visiting-card,  on  which  some  one 
with  a  poetic  turn  had  written,  "  Does   not  this  bowlder  remind  you  of 


THE     FRANCOXIA     PASS. 


THE  FLUME,  FRANCONIA  NOTCH. 


2  28  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

the  sword  of  Damocles?"     To  a  civil  question,  civil  reply:    No;   to  me 
it  looks  like  a  nut  in  a  cracker. 

Over  the  gorge  bends  an  arcade  of  interlaced  foliage  shot  through 
and  through  with  sunshine ;  and  wherever  cleft  or  cranny  can  be  found 
young  birches,  sword -ferns,  trailing  vines,  insinuating  their  long  roots 
in  the  damp  mould,  garland  the  cold  granite  with  tenderest  green.  The 
exquisite  white  anemone  blooms  in  the  mossy  wall  wet  witli  tiny  streams 
that  do  not  run  but  glide  unperceived  down.  What  could  be  more  cun- 
ning than  the  persistency  with  which  these  hardy  waifs,  clinging  or 
drooping  along  the  craggy  way,  draw  their  sustenance  from  tlie  rock, 
Avhich  seems  to  nourish  them  in  spite  of  itself."*  Underneath  your  feet 
tlie  swollen  torrent  storms  along  the  gorge,  dashing  itself  recklessly 
against  intruding  bowlders,  or  else  passing  them  with  a  curl  of  disdain. 
How  gallantly  it  surmounts  every  obstacle  in  its  way !  How  crystal- 
clear  are  its  waters !  On  it  speeds,  scattering  pearls  and  diamonds  right 
and  left,  like  the  prodigal  it  is ;  unpolluted,  as  yet,  by  the  filth  of  cities, 
or  turned  into  a  languid,  broken-spirited  drudge  by  dams  or  mill-wheels. 
'Stop  me.''"  it  seems  exclaiming.  "Why,  I  am  offspring  of  the  clouds, 
their  messenger  to  the  parched  earth,  the  mountain  maid-of-all-work  ! 
Stay ;  step  aside  here  in  tlie  sun  and  I  will  show  you  my  rainbow-sig- 
net !  When  I  rest,  do  you  not  behold  the  mother  imaged  in  the  features 
of  the  child  ?  Stop  me !  Put  your  hand  in  my  bosom  and  see  how 
strong  and  full  of  life  are  my  pulse-beats.  To-morrow  I  shall  be  vapor. 
Thought  is  not  freer.  I  do  not  belong  to  earth  any  more  than  the  eagle 
sailing  above  yonder  mountain-top." 

Overhead  a  fallen  tree-trunk  makes  a  crazy  bridge  from  cliff  to  cliff. 
The  sight  of  the  gorge,  with  the  flood  foaming  far  below,  the  glitter  of 
falling  waters  through  the  trees,  the  splendid  light  in  the  midst  of  deep- 
est gloom,  the  solemn  pines — the  odorous  forest,  the  wildness  and  the 
coolness — impart  an  indescribable  charm  to  the  spot  tliat  makes  us  re- 
luctant to  leave  it.  Many  ladies  ascend  to  the  head  of  the  gorge  and, 
crossing  on  the  rude  bridge,  leave  their  visiting-cards  on  the  other  side; 
one  had  left  her  pocket-handkerchief,  with  the  scent  fresh  upon  it.  I 
picked  it  up,  and  out  hopped  a  toad. 

After  the  Pool  and  the  Flume,  an  ascent  of  the  mountain  behind 
tlie  hotel  will  be  found  conducive  to  enjoyment  of  another  kind.  This 
mountain  commands  delicious  views  of  the  valley  of  the  Pemigewasset. 
A  short  hoin-  is  usuallv  sufficient  for  the  climb.     It  was  a  very  raw,  windy 


THE     l'kA.\LOXIA     PASS.  229 

morning  on  which  I  cHmbed  it,  but  the  uncommon  purity  of  the  air  and 
the  exceeding  beauty  of  the  landscape  were  most  rarely  combined  with 
cloud  effects  seen  only  in  conjunction  with  a  brisk  north-west  wind.  I 
had  taken  a  station  similar  to  that  occupied  by  Mount  Willard  with  re- 
spect to  the  Saco  Valley,  now  opening  a  vista  essentially  different  from 
that  most  memorable  one  in  my  mountain  experience.  The  valley  is  not 
the  same.  You  see  the  undulating  course  of  the  river  for  many  leagues, 
and  but  for  an  intercepting  hill,  which  hides  them,  might  distinguish 
the  houses  of  Plymouth.  The  vales  of  Woodstock,  Thornton,  and  Camp- 
ton,  spotted  with  white  houses,  lie  outspread  in  the  sun,  between  enclos- 
ing mountains;  and  the  windings  of  the  Pemigewasset  are  now  seen 
dark  and  glossy,  now  white  with  foam,  appearing,  disappearing,  and 
finally  lost  to  view  in  the  blended  distance.  The  sky  was  packed  with 
clouds.  Over  the  vivid  green  of  the  intervales  their  black  shadows 
drifted  swiftly  and  noiselessly,  first  turning  the  light  on,  then  off  again, 
with  magical  effect.  To  look  up  and  see  these  clouds  all  in  motion, 
and  then,  looking  down,  see  those  weird  draperies  darkly  trailing  over 
the  land,  was  a  reminiscence  of 

"The  dim  and  shadowy  armies  of  oup  unquiet  dreams — 
Their  footsteps  brush  the  dewy  fern  and  paint  the  shaded  streams." 

The  mountain  ridges  flowed  southward  with  marvellous  smoothness  to 
the  vanishing-point,  on  one  side  of  the  valley  bright  green,  on  the  other 
indigo  blue.  This  picture  was  not  startling,  like  that  from  the  Crawford 
Notch,  but,  in  its  own  way,  was  incomparable.  The  sunsets  are  said  to 
be  beautiful  beyond  description. 

One  looks  up  the  Notch  upon  the  great  central  peaks  composing 
the  water-shed — Cannon,  Lafayette,  Lincoln,  and  the  rest — to  see  crags, 
ridges,  black  forests,  rising  before  him  in  all  their  gloomy  magnificence. 

On  one  side  all  is  beauty,  harmony,  and  grace ;  on  the  other,  a 
packed  mass  of  bristling,  steep -sided  mountains  seem  storming  the  sky 
with  their  gray  turrets.  Could  we  but  look  over  the  brawny  shoulders 
of  the  mountains  opposite  to  us,  the  eye  would  take  in  the  vast,  untrod- 
den solitudes  of  the  Pemigewasset  forests  cut  by  the  East  Branch  and 
presided  over  by  Mount  Carrigain  —  a  region  as  yet  reserved  for  those 
restless  and  adventurous  spirits  whom  the  beaten  paths  of  travel  have 
ceased  to  charm  or  attract.  But  an  e.xcursion  into  this  "forest  primeval" 
is  to  be   no  holiday  promenade.     It   is   an   arduous   and   difificult   march 


230 


THE     HEART    OF     THE     WHITE     MO  L\X TAINS. 


^^ 


over     slip- 
pery     rocks. 


through 


tangled 


THE    liASIN. 


thickets,  or  up  the 
beds  of  mountain 
torrents.  Hard  fare 
and  a  harder  bed  of 
boughs  finish  the  day, 
every  hour  of  which 
has  been  a  continued  combat  with  fresh  obstacles.  At  this  price  one 
may  venture  to  encounter  the  virgin  wilderness  or,  as  the  cant  phrase  is, 
"  try  roughing  it."  It  is  a  curious  feeling  to  turn  your  back  upon  the 
last  cart-path,  then  upon  the  last  foot-path;  to  hear  the  distant  baying 
of  a  hound  grow  fainter  and  fainter — in  a  word,  to  exchange  at  a  single 
step  the  sights  and  sounds  of  civilized  life,  the  movement,  the  bustle,  for 
a  silence  broken  only  by  the  hum  of  bees  and  the  murmur  of  invisible 
waters. 

I  left  the  Flume  House  in  company  with  a  young-old  man,  whom  I 
met  there,  and  in  whom  I  hoped  to  find  another  and  a  surer  pair  of  eyes, 
for,  were  he  to  have  as  many  as  j-Xrgus,  the  sight-seer  would  find  employ- 
ment for  them  all. 

While  gayly  threading  the  green -wood,  we  came  upon  a  miniature 
edition  of  the  Pool,  situated  close  to  the  highway,  called  the  Basin.     A 


THE     FRAyCONlA     I'ASS.  231 

basin  in  fact  it  is,  and  a  bath  fit  for  the  gods.  It  is  plain  to  see  that 
the  stream  once  poured  over  the  smooth  ledges  here,  instead  of  making 
its  exit  by  the  present  channel.  A  cascade  falls  into  it  with  hollow  roar. 
This  cistern  has  been  worn  by  the  rotary  motion  of  large  pebbles  which 
the  little  cascade,  pouring  down  into  it  from  above,  set  and  kept  actively 
whirling  and  grinding  at  its  own  mad  caprice.  But  this  was  not  the 
work  of  a  dav.  Long  and  constant  attrition  only  could  have  scooped 
this  cavity  out  of  the  granite,  which  is  here  so  clean,  smooth,  and  white, 
and  filled  to  the  brim  with  a  grayish-emerald  water,  light,  limpid,  and  in- 
cessantly replenished  by  the  effervescent  cascade.  In  the  beginning  this 
was  doubtless  an  insignificant  crevice,  into  which  a  few  pebbles  and  a 
handful  of  sand  were  dropped  by  the  stream,  but  which,  having  no  way 
of  escape,  were  kept  in  a  perpetual  tread-mill,  until  what  was  at  first  a 
mere  hole  became  as  we  now  see  it.  The  really  curious  feature  of  the 
stone  basin  is  a  strip  of  granite  projecting  into  it  which  closely  resem- 
bles a  human  leg  and  foot,  luxuriously  cooling  itself  in  the  stream. 
Such  queer  freaks  of  nature  are  not  merely  curious,  but  they  while  away 
the  hours  so  agreeably  that  time  and  distance  are  forgotten. 

As  we  walked  on,  the  hills  were  constantly  hemming  us  in  closer 
and  closer.  Suddenly  we  entered  a  sort  of  crater,  with  high  mountains 
all  around.  One  impulse  caused  us  to  halt  and  look  about  us.  In  full 
view  at  our  left  the  inaccessible  precipices  of  Mount  Cannon  rose  above 
a  mountain  of  shattered  stones,  which  ages  upon  ages  of  battering  have 
torn  piecemeal  from  it.  Its  base  was  heaped  high  with  these  ruins. 
Seldom  has  it  fallen  to  my  lot  to  see  anything  so  grandly  typical  of 
the  indomitable  as  this  sorely  battered  and  disfigured  mountain  citadel, 
which  nevertheless  lifts  and  will  still  lift  its  unconquerable  battlements 
so  long  as  one  stone  remains  upon  another.  Hewed  and  hacked,  riven 
and  torn,  gashed  and  defaced  in  countless  battles,  one  can  hardly  repress 
an  emotion  of  pity  as  well  as  of  admiration.  I  do  not  recollect,  in  all 
these  mountains,  another  such  striking  example  of  the  denuding  forces 
with  which  the\-  are  perpetually  at  war.  When  we  see  mountains  crum- 
bling before  our  very  eyes,  may  we  not  begin  to  doubt  the  stability  of 
things  that  we  are  pleased  to  call  eternal .''  Still,  although  it  seems 
erected  solely  for  the  pastime  of  all  the  powers  of  destruction,  this  one, 
so  glorious  in  its  unconquerable  resolve  to  die  at  its  post — this  one,  ex- 
posing its  naked  breast  to  the  fury  of  its  deadliest  foes  —  so  stern  and 
terrific   of    aspect,  so   high   and  haughty,  so    dauntlessly   throwing   down 


^32  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

the  gauntlet  to  Fate  itself — assures  us  that  the  combat  will  be  long  and 
obstinate,  and  that  the  mountain  will  fall  at  last,  if  fall  it  must,  with  the 
grace  and  heroism  of  a  gladiator  in  the  Roman  arena.  The  gale  flies 
at  it  with  a  shriek  of  impotent  rage.  Winter  strips  off  its  broidered 
tunic  and  flings  white  dust  in  its  aged  face.  Rust  corrodes,  rains 
drench,  fires  scorch  it;  liq-htnino;  and  frost  are  forever  searching  out  the 
weak  spots  in  its  harness;  but,  still  uplifting  its  adamantine  crest,  it  re- 
ceives unshaken  the  stroke  or  the  blast,  spurns  the  lightning,  mocks  the 
thunder,  and  stands  fast.  Underneath  is  a  little  lake,  which  at  sunset 
resembles  a  pool  of  blood  that  has  trickled  drop  by  drop  from  the  deep 
wounds  in  the  side  of  the  mountain. 

We  are  still  advancing  in  this  region  of  wonders.  In  our  front  soars 
an  insuperable  mass  of  forest -shagged  rock.  Behind  it  rises  the  abso- 
lutely regal  Lafayette.  Our  footsteps  are  stayed  by  the  glimmer  of 
water  through  trees  by  the  road -side.  We  have  reached  the  summit 
of  the  pass. 

Six  miles  of  continued  ascent  from  the  F"lume  House  have  brought 
us  to  Profile  Lake,  which  the  road  skirts.  Although  a  pretty  enough 
piece  of  water,  it  is  not  for  itself  this  lake  is  resorted  to  by  its  thou- 
sands, or  for  being  the  source  of  the  Pemigewasset,  or  for  its  trout — 
which  you  take  for  the  reflection  of  birds  on  its  burnished  surface — but 
for  the  mountain  rising  high  above,  whose  wooded  slopes  it  so  faithfully 
mirrors.  Now  lift  the  eyes  to  the  bare  summit !  It  is  difficult  to  be- 
lieve the  evidence  of  the  senses  !  Upon  the  high  cliffs  of  this  moun- 
tain is  the  remarkable  and  celebrated  natural  rock  sculpture  of  a  human 
head,  which,  from  a  height  twelve  hundred  feet  above  the  lake,  has  for 
uncounted  ages  looked  with  the  same  stony  stare  down  the  pass  upon 
the  windings  of  the  river  through  its  incomparable  valley.  The  profile 
itself  measures  about  forty  feet  from  the  tip  of  the  chin  to  the  flattened 
crown  which  imparts  to  it  such  a  peculiarly  antique  appearance.  All 
is  perfect,  except  that  the  forehead  is  concealed  by  something  like  the 
visor  of  a  helmet.  And  all  this  illusion  is  produced  by  several  project- 
ing crags.     It  might  be  said  to  have  been  begotten  by  a  thunder-bolt. 

Taking  a  seat  within  a  rustic  arbor  on  the  high  shore  of  the  lake, 
one  is  at  liberty  to  peruse  at  leisure  what,  I  dare  say,  is  the  most  ex- 
traordinary sight  of  a  lifetime.  A  change  of  position  varies  more  or  less 
the  character  of  the  expression,  which  is,  after  all,  the  marked  peculiarity 
of  this  monstrous  alto  relievo;  for  let  the  spectator  turn  his  gaze  vacantly 


7' HE     FK  A  XCONI A     PASS.  233 

upon  the  more  familiar  objects  at  hand — as  he  inevitably  will,  to  assure 
himself  that  he  is  not  the  victim  of  some  strange  hallucination — a  fasci- 
nation born  neither  of  admiration  nor  horror,  but  strongly  partaking  of 
both  emotions,  draws  him  irresistibly  back  to  the  Dantesque  head  stuck, 
like  a  felon's,  on  the  highest  battlements  of  the  pass.  The  more  you 
may  have  seen,  the  more  your  feelings  are  disciplined,  the  greater  the 
confusion  of  ideas.  The  moment  is  come  to  acknowledge  yourself  van- 
quished. This  is  not  merely  a  face,  it  is  a  portrait.  That  is  not  the 
work  of  some  cunning  chisel,  but  a  cast  from  a  living  head.  You  feel 
and  will  always  maintain  that  those  features  have  had  a  living  and 
breathing  counterpart.      Nothins:  more,  nothinsf  less. 

But  where  and  what  was  the  original  prototype  .''  Not  man  ;  since, 
ages  before  he  was  created,  the  chisel  of  the  Almighty  wrought  this 
sculpture  upon  the  rock  above  us.  No,  not  man  ;  the  face  is  too  ma- 
jestic, too  nobly  grand,  for  anything  of  mortal  mould.  One  of  the 
antique  gods  may,  perhaps,  have  sat  for  this  archetype  of  the  coming 
man.  And  yet  not  man,  we  think,  for  the  head  will  surely  hold  the 
same  strange  converse  with  futurity  when  man  shall  have  vanished  from 
the  face  of  the  earth. 

This  gigantic  silhouette,  which  has  been  dubbed  the  Old  Man  of 
the  Mountain,  is  unquestionably  the  greatest  curiosity  of  this  or  any 
other  mountain  region.  It  is  unique.  But  it  is  not  merely  curious  ; 
nor  is  it  more  marvellous  for  the  wonderful  accuracy  of  outline  than  for 
the  almost  superhuman  expression  of  frozen  terror  it  eternally  fixes  on 
the  vague  and  shadowy  distance  —  a  far-away  look;  an  intense  and 
speechless  amazement,  such  as  sometimes  settles  on  the  faces  of  the 
dying  at  the  moment  the  soul  leaves  the  body  forever — untranslatable 
into  words,  but  seeming  to  declare  the  presence  of  some  unutterable 
vision,  too  bright  and  dazzling  for  mortal  eyes  to  behold.  The  face 
puts  the  whole  world  behind  it.  It  does  everything  but  speak  —  nay, 
you  are  ready  to  swear  that  it  is  going  to  speak  !  And  so  this  chance 
jumbling  together  of  a  few  stones  has  produced  a  sculpture  before  which 
Art  hangs  her  head. 

I  renounce  in  dismay  the  idea  of  reproducing  the  effect  on  the 
reader's  mind  which  this  prodigy  produced  on  my  own.  Impressions 
more  pronounced,  yet  at  the  same  time  more  inexplicable,  have  never 
so  effectually  overcome  that  habitual  self-command  derived  from  many 
experiences  of  travel  among  strange  and  unaccustomed  scenes.     From 

19 


234 


THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOi'XTAINS. 


tlie  moment  the  startled  eye  catches  it  one  is  aware  of  a  Presence 
which  dominates  the  spirit,  first  with  strange  fear,  then  by  that  natural 
revulsion  which  at  such  moments  makes  the  imagination  supreme,  con- 
ducts straight  to  the  supernatural,  there  to  leave  it  helplessly  struggling 
in  a  maze  of  impotent  conjecture.  But,  even  upon  this  debatable 
ground,  between  two  worlds,  one  is  not  able  to  surprise  the  secret  of 
those  lips  of  marble.  The  Sphinx  overcomes  us  by  his  stony,  his  dis- 
dainful  silence.      Let  the   visitor  be    ever   so   unimpassioned,  surely  he 


^- 


THE    OLD    MAN    OK    THE    MOUNTAIN. 


must  be  more  than  mortal  to  resist  the  Impression  of  mingled  awe, 
wonder,  and  admiration  which  a  first  sight  of  this  weird  object  forces 
upon  him.  He  is,  indeed,  less  than  human  if  the  feeling  does  not  con- 
tinually grow  and  deepen  while  he  looks.  The  face  is  so  amazing,  that 
1  have  often  tried  to  imagine  the  sensations  of  him  who  first  discov- 
ered it  peering  from  the  top  of  the  mountain  with  such  absorbed,  open- 
mouthed  wonder.  Again  I  see  the  tired  Indian  hunter,  pausing  to  slake 
his  thirst  by  the  lake -side,  start  as  his  gaze  suddenly  encounters  this 
terrific   apparition.     I  fancy  the  half-uttered  exclamation  sticking  in  his 


THE    FRANCO  NIA     PASS.  235 

throat.  I  behold  him  standing  there  with  bated  breath,  not  darinsi  to 
stir  hand  or  foot,  his  white  lips  parted,  his  scared  eyes  dilated,  until  his 
own  swarthy  features  exactly  reflect  that  unearthl)',  that  intense  amaze- 
ment stamped  large  and  vivid  upon  the  livid  rock.  There  he  remains, 
rooted  to  the  spot,  unable  to  reason,  trembling  in  every  limb.  For  him 
there  are  no  accidents  of  nature ;  for  him  everything  has  its  design. 
His  moment  of  terrible  suspense  is  hardly  difficult  to  understand,  seeing 
how  careless  thousands  that  come  and  go  are  thrilled,  and  awed,  and 
silenced,  notwithstanding  you  tell  them  the  face  is  nothing  but  rocks. 

If  the  effect  upon  minds  of  the  common  order  be  so  pronounced,  a 
first  sight  of  the  Great  Stone  Face  may  easily  be  supposed  to  act  pow- 
erfully upon  the  imaginative  and  impressible.  The  novelist,  Hawthorne, 
makes  it  the  interpreter  of  a  noble  life.  For  him  the  Titanic  counte- 
nance is  radiant  with  majestic  benignity.  He  endows  it  with  a  soul, 
surrounds  the  colossal  brow  with  the  halo  of  a  spiritual  grandeur,  and, 
marshalling  his  train  of  phantoms,  proceeds  to  pass  inexorable  judgment 
upon  them.  Another  legend  —  like  its  predecessor,  too  long  for  our 
pages — runs  to  the  effect  that  a  painter  who  had  resolved  to  paint  Christ 
sitting  in  judgment,  and  who  was  filled  with  the  grandeur  of  his  subject, 
wandered  up  and  down  the  great  art  palaces,  the  cathedrals  of  the  Old 
World,  seeking  in  vain  a  model  which  should  in  all  things  be  the  em- 
bodiment of  his  ideal.  In  despair  at  the  futility  of  his  search  he  hears 
a  strange  report,  brought  by  some  pious  missionaries  from  the  New 
World,  of  a  wonderful  image  of  the  human  face  which  the  Indians 
looked  upon  with  sacred  veneration.  The  painter  immediately  crossed 
the  sea,  and  caused  himself  to  be  guided  to  the  spot,  where  he  beheld, 
in  the  profile  of  the  great  White  Mountains,  the  object  of  his  search 
and  fulfilment  of  his  dream.     The  legend  is  entitled  Christiis  Judex. 

Had  Byron  visited  this  place  of  awe  and  mystery,  his  "  Manfred,"  the 
scene  of  which  is  laid  among  the  mountains  of  the  Bernese  Alps,  would 
doubtless  have  had  a  deeper  and  perhaps  gloomier  impulse ;  but  even 
among  the  eternal  realms  of  ice  the  poet  never  beheld  an  object  that 
could  so  arouse  the  gloomy  exaltation  he  has  breathed  into  that  tragedy. 
His  line — 

"Bound  to  earth,  he  Hfts  his  eye  to  heaven" — 

becomes  descriptive  here. 

Again  and  again  we  turn  to  the  face.  We  go  away  to  wonder  if  it 
is   still   there.     We    come   back   to   wonder   still   more.     An   emotion    of 


236  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOL'XTAINS. 

pity  mingles  with  the  rest.  Time  seems  to  have  passed  it  by.  It  seems 
undergoing  some  terrible  sentence.  It  is  a  greater  riddle  than  the 
gigantic  stone  face  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile. 

All  effects  of  light  and  shadow  are  so  many  changes  of  countenance 
or  of  expression.  I  have  seen  the  face  cut  sharp  and  clear  as  an  an- 
tique cameo  upon  the  morning  sky.  I  have  seen  it  suffused,  nay,  almost 
transfigured,  in  the  sunset  glow.  Often  and  often  does  a  cloud  rest 
upon  its  brow.  I  have  seen  it  start  fitfully  out  of  the  flying  scud  to  be 
the  next  moment  smothered  in  clouds.  I  have  heard  the  thunder  roll 
from  its  lips  of  stone.  I  recall  the  sunken  cheeks,  wet  with  the  damps 
of  its  nicht-lons"  vigil,  glistenino;  in  the  morning  sunshine  —  smiling 
through  tears.  I  remember  its  emaciated  visage  streaked  and  crossed 
with  wrinkles  that  the  snow  had  put  there  in  a  night;  but  never  have 
I  seen  it  insipid  or  commonplace.  On  the  contrary,  the  overhanging 
brow,  the  antique  nose,  the  protruding  under-lip,  the  massive  chin,  might 
belong  to  another  Prometheus  chained  to  the  rock,  but  whom  no  pun- 
ishment could  make  lower  his  haughty  head. 

I  lingered  by  the  margin  of  the  lake  watching  the  play  of  the  clouds 
upon  the  water,  until  a  loud  and  resonant  peal,  followed  by  large,  warm 
drops,  admonished  me  to  seek  the  nearest  shelter.  And  what  thunder ! 
The  hills  rocked.  What  echoes !  The  mountains  seemed  knocking 
their  stony  heads  together.  What  lightning !  The  very  heavens  cracked 
with  the  flashes. 

'■  Far  along 
From  peak  to  peak  the  rattling  crags  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder!  not  from  one  lone  cloud, 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue, 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud !" 


THE     KJNG     OF    E  R  A  A  C  O  N I  A.  237 


III. 

THE    KING     OF    FRAN  CON  I  A. 

Hills  draw  like  heaven 
And  stronjTcr,  sometimes,  holding  out  their  hands  ■" 

To  pull  you  from  the  vile  flats  up  to  them. 

E.  B.  Browning. 

AT  noon  we  reached  the  spacious  and  inviting  Profile  House,  which 
is  liid  away  in  a  deep  and  narrow  glen,  nearly  two  thousand  feet 
above  the  sea.  No  situation  could  be  more  sequestered  or  more  charm- 
ing. The  place  seems  stolen  from  the  unkempt  wilderness  that  shuts  it 
in.  An  oval,  grassy  plain,  not  extensive,  but  bright  and  smiling,  spreads 
its  green  between  a  grisly  precipice  and  a  shaggy  mountain.  And  there, 
if  you- will  believe  me,  in  front  of  the  long,  white-columned  hotel,  like  a 
Turkish  rug  on  a  carpet,  was  a  pretty  flower-garden.  Like  those  flowers 
on  the  lawn  were  beauties  sauntering  up  and  down  in  exquisite  morning 
toilets,  coquetting  with  their  bright-colored  parasols,  and  now  and  then 
glancing  up  at  the  grim  old  mountains  with  that  air  of  elegant  disdain 
which  is  so  redoubtable  a  weapon — even  in  the  mountains.  Little  chil- 
dren fluttered  about  the  grass  like  beautiful  butterflies,  and  as  unmindful 
of  the  terrors  that  hovered  over  them  so  threateningly.  Nurses  in  their 
stiff  grenadier  caps  and  white  aprons,  lackeys  in  livery,  cadets  in  uni- 
form, elegant  equipages,  blooded  horses,  daintv  shapes  on  horseback, 
cavaliers,  and  last,  but  not  least,  the  resolute  pedestrian,  or  the  gentle- 
men strollers  up  and  down  the  shaded  avenues,  made  up  a  scene  as 
animated  as  attractive.  There  is  tonic  in  the  air:  there  is  healing  in 
the  balm  of  these  groves.  Even  the  horses  step  out  more  brisklv. 
Peals  of  laughter  startle  the  solemn  old  woods.  You  hear  them  higli 
up  the  mountain  side.  There  go  a  pair  of  lovers,  the  gentleman  with 
his  book,  whose  most  telling  passages  he  has  carefully  conned,  the  lady 
with  her  embroidery,  over  which  she  bends  lower  as  he  reads  on.     Ah, 


238  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

happy  days  !     What  is  this  youth,  which,  having  it,  we  are  so  eager  to 
escape,  and,  when  it  is  gone,  we  look  back  upon  with  such  longing  ? 


EAGLE   CLIFF   AND   THE   ECHO    HOUSE. 


The  loftv  crag  opposite  the  hotel  is  Eagle  Cliff,  a  name  at  once 
legitimate  and  satisfying,  although  it  is  now  untenanted  by  the  eagles 
which  formerly  made  their  home  in  the  security  of  its  precipitous  rocks. 
The  cliff  is   also  seen  to  great  advantage  from   Echo  Lake,  half  a  mile 


THE    KING     OF    FRANCONIA. 


239 


farther  on,  of  which  it  constitutes  a  striking  feature.  In  simple  parlance 
it  is  an  advanced  spur  of  Mount  Lafayette.  The  high  and  curving  wall 
of  this  cliff  encloses  on  one  side  the  Profile  Glen,  while  Mount  Cannon 
forms  the  other.  The  precipices  tower  so  far  above  the  glen  that  large 
trees  look  like  shrubs.  Behind  Eagle  Cliff,  almost  isolating  it  from  the 
mountain,  of  which  it  is  the  barbacan,  a  hideous  ravine  yawns  upon  the 
pass.  Here  and  there,  among  the  thick-set  evergreen  trees,  beech  and 
birch  and  maple,  spread  masses  of  rich  green,  and  mottle  it  with  soft- 
ness. The  purple  rock  bulges  daringly  out,  forming  a  parapet  of  ada- 
mant. 

The  turf  underneath  the  cliff  was  most  beautifully  and  profusely 
spangled  with  the  delicate  pink  anemone,  the  Jlcur  dcs  fics,  that  pale 
darling  of  our  New  England  woods,  to  which  the  arbutus  resigns  the 
sceptre  of  spring.  It  is  a  moving  sight  to  see  these  little  drooping  flow- 
ers, so  shy  and  modest,  yet  so  meek  and  trustful,  growing  at  the  foot  of 
a  bare  and  sterile  rock.  The  face  hardened  looking  up;  grew  soft  look- 
ing down.  "  Don't  tread  on  us !"'  "  May  not  a  flower  look  up  at  a  moun- 
tain ?"  they  seem  to  plead.  Lightly  fall  the  dews  upon  your  upturned 
faces,  dear  little  flowers  !  Soft  be  the  sunshine  and  gentle  the  winds 
that  kiss  those  sky-tinted  cheeks  !  In  thy  sweet  purity  and  innocence 
I  see  faces  that  are  beneath  the  sod,  flowers  that  have  blossomed  in 
Paradise. 

We  see  also,  from  the  hotel,  the  singular  rock  that  occasioned  the 
change  of  name  from  Profile  to  Cannon  Mountain.  It  nearly  resembles 
a  piece  of  heavy  ordnance  protruding,  threateningly,  from  the  parapet  of 
a  fortress. 

Taking  one  of  the  well-worn  paths  conducting  to  the  water-side, 
a  few  minutes'  walk  brinsrs  us  to  the  shore  of  Echo  Lake,  with  Eagle 
Cliff  now  rising  grandly  on  our  right.  Nowhere  among  the  White  Hills 
is  there  a  fuller  realization  of  a  mountain  lake  than  this.  Light  flaws 
frost  it  with  silver.  Sharp  keels  cut  it  as  diamonds  cut  glass.  The 
water  is  so  transparent  that  you  see  fishes  swimming  or  floating  indo- 
lently about. 

Echo  Lake  is  somewhat  larger  than  Profile  Lake,  and  is  only  a 
step  from  the  road.  Its  sources  are  in  the  hundred  streams  that  de- 
scend the  surrounding  mountains,  and  its  waters  are  discharged  by  the 
valley,  lying  between  us  and  the  heights  of  Bethlehem,  into  the  Am- 
monoosuc.     Therefore,  in  coming  from   one  lake  to  the   other  we   have 


240  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 


ECHO    LAKE. 


crossed  the  summit  of  the  pass.  On  one  side  the  waters  flow  to  the 
Merrimac,  on  the  other  to  the  Connecticut.  An  idle  fancy  tempted  me 
to  bring  a  cup  of  water  from  Profile  and  cast  it  into  Echo  Lake,  for- 
getting that,  although  divided  in  their  lives,  the  twin  lakes  had  yet  a 
common  destiny  in  the  abyss  of  the  ocean.  I  found  the  outlook  from 
the  boat-house  on  the  whole  the  most  satisfying,  because  one  looks  back 
directly  through  the  deep  chasm  of  the  Notch. 

In  this  beautiful  little  mountain -tarn  the  true  artist  finds  his  ideal. 
The  snowy  peak  of  Lafayette  looked  down  into  it  with  a  freezing  stare. 
Cannon  Mountain  now  showed  his  retreating  wall  on  the  right.  The 
huge,  castellated  rampart  of  Eagle  Cliff  lifted  on  its  borders  precijiices 
dripping  with  moisture,  and  glistening  in  the  sun  like  casements.  Ex- 
cept for  the  lake,  the  whole  aspect  would  be  irredeemably  savage  and 
forbidding — a  blind  landscape;  but  when  the  sun  sinks  behind  the  long 
ridge  of  Mount  Cannon,  purpling  all  these  grisly  crags,  and  the  cloaked 
shadows,  groping  their  way  foot  by  foot  up  the  ravines,  seem  spectres 
risen  from  the  depths  of  the  lake,  you  see,  underneath  the  cliffs,  long 
and  slender  spears  of  golden  light  thrust  deep  into  its  black  and  glossy 


THE    KING     OF    FRANCOXIA.  24 1 

tide,  crimsoning  it  as  with  its  own  life-blood.  Tlien,  too,  is  the  proper 
moment  for  surprising  these  vain  old  mountains  viewing  themselves  in 
their  mountain  mirror,  in  which  the  bald,  the  wrinkled,  and  the  decrepit 
appear  young,  vigorous,  and  gloriously  fair;  to  see  them  gloating  over 
their  swarthy  features  like  the  bandit  in  "  Fra  Diavolo."  Their  ragged 
mantles  are  changed  to  gaudy  cashmeres,  picturesquely  twisted  about 
their  brawny  shoulders,  their  snows  to  laces.  Oh  the  pomp,  the  majesty 
of  these  sunsets,  which  so  glorify  the  upturned  faces  of  the  haggard  cliffs ; 
which  transmute,  as  in  the  miracle,  water  into  wine ;  which  instantly 
transform  these  rugged  mountain  walls  into  gates  of  jasper,  and  ruby, 
and  onyx  —  glowing,  effulgent,  enrapturing!  And  then,  after  the  sun 
drops  wearily  down  the  west,  that  gauze-like  vapor,  spun  from  the  breath 
of  evening,  rising  like  incense  from  tlie  surface  of  the  lake,  which  the 
mountains  put  on  for  the  masque  of  night ;  and,  finally,  the  inquisitive 
stars  piercing  the  lake  with  ice-cold  gleams,  or  the  full -moon  breaking 
in  one  great  burst  of  splendor  on  its  level  surface ! 

The  echo  adds  its  feats  of  ventriloquism.  The  marvel  of  the  pho- 
nograph is  but  a  mimicry  of  Nature,  the  universal  teacher.  Now  the 
man  blows  a  strong,  clear  blast  upon  a  long  Alpine  horn,  and,  like  a 
bugle-call  flying  from  camp  to  camp,  the  martial  signal  is  repeated,  not 
once,  but  airain  and  airain,  in  waves  of  bewitching  sweetness  and  with 
the  exquisite  modulations  of  the  wood -thrush's  note.  From  covert  to 
covert,  now  here,  now  there,  it  chants  its  rapturous  melody.  Once  again 
it  glides  upon  the  entranced  ear,  and  still  we  lean  in  breathless  eager- 
ness to  catch  the  last  faint  cadence  sighing  itself  away  upon  the  palpi- 
tating air.  A  cannon  was  then  fired.  The  report  and  echo  came  with 
the  flash.  In  a  moment  more  a  deep  and  hollow  rumbling  sound,  as  if 
the  mountains  were  splitting  their  huge  sides  with  suppressed  laughter, 
startled  us. 

The  ascent  of  Mount  Lafayette  fittingly  crowns  the  series  of  excur- 
sions through  which  we  have  passed  since  leaving  Plymouth.  This 
mountain  dominates  the  valleys  north  and  south  with  undisputed  sway. 
It  is  the  King  of  Franconia. 

At  seven  in  the  morning  I  crossed  the  little  clearing,  and,  turning 
into  the  path  leading  to  the  summit,  found  myself  at  the  beginning  of  a 
steep  ascent.  It  was  one  of  the  last  and  fairest  days  of  that  bright 
season  which  made  the  poet  exclaim, 

"  And  what  is  so  fair  as  a  day  in  June  ?" 
20 


24: 


THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 


The  thunder-storm  of  the  previ- 
ous afternoon,  which  continued 
its  furious  cannonade  at  inter- 
vals throughout  the  night,  had 
purified  the  air  and  given  prom- 
ise of  a  day  favorable  for  the  as- 


MOUNT  CANNON,  FROM  THE  BRlDLE-l'ATH,  LAFAYETTE. 


ccnsion.  No  clouds  were 
upon  the  mountains.  Ev- 
erything betokened  a  pa- 
cific disposition. 


THE    KIXG     OF    FRANCONIA.  243 

The  path  at  once  attacks  tlie  south  side  of  Eagle  Cliff.  A  short 
way  up,  openings  afford  fine  views  of  Mount  Cannon  and  its  weird 
profile,  of  the  valley  below,  and  of  the  glen  we  have  just  left.  The  stu- 
pendous mass  of  Eagle  Cliff,  suspended  a  thousand  feet  over  your  head, 
accelerates  the  pace. 

After  an  hour  of  steady,  but  not  rapid,  climbing,  the  ]5at]i  turned 
abruptly  under  the  shattered,  but  still  formidable,  precipices  of  tlie  cliff, 
which  rose  some  distance  higher,  skirted  it  awhile,  and  then  began  to 
zi2:za(r  anions  hucje  rocks  alons:  the  narrow  ridsje  unitinsf  the  cliff 
with  the  mass  of  the  mountain.  Two  deep  ravines  fall  away  on  either 
side.  For  two  or  three  hundred  yards,  from  the  time  the  shoulder  of 
the  cliff  is  turned  until  the  mountain  itself  is  reached,  the  walk  is  as  ro- 
mantic an  episode  of  mountain  climbing  as  any  I  can  recall,  except  the 
narrow  gully  of  Chocorua.  But  this  passage  presents  no  such  difficul- 
ties as  must  be  overcome  there.  Although  heaped  with  rocks,  the  way 
is  easy,  and  is  quite  level.  In  one  place,  where  it  glides  between  two 
])rodigious  masses  of  rock  dislodged  from  the  cliff,  it  is  so  narrow  as  to 
admit  only  a  single  person  at  a  time.  When  I  turned  to  looked  back 
down  the  black  ravine,  cutting  into  the  south  side  of  the  mountain,  my 
eye  met  nothing  but  immense  rocks  stopped  in  their  descent  on  the 
very  edge  of  the  gulf.  It  is  among  these  that  a  way  has  been  found  for 
the  path,  which  was  to  me  a  reminiscence  of  the  high  defiles  of  the 
Isthmus  of  Darien ;  to  complete  the  illusion,  nothing  was  now  wanting 
except  the  tinkling  bells  of  the  mules  and  the  song  of  the  muleteer.  I 
climbed  upon  one  of  the  high  rocks,  and  gazed  to  my  full  content  upon 
the  granite  parapet  of  Mount  Cannon. 

In  a  few  rods  more  the  path  encountered  the  great  ravine  opening 
into  the  valley  of  Gale  River.  Through  its  wide  trough  brilliant  strips 
of  this  valley  gleamed  out  far  below.  The  village  of  Franconia  and  the 
heights  of  Lisbon  and  Bethlehem  now  appeared  on  this  side. 

I  tliink  that  the  perception  of  a  distance  climbed  is  greater  to  one 
who  is  looking  down  from  a  great  height  than  to  one  looking  up.  Doubt- 
less the  imagination,  which  associates  the  plunging  lines  of  a  deep  gorge 
with  the  horror  of  a  fall,  has  much  to  do  with  this  impression.  Upon 
crossing  a  bridge  of  logs,  the  peak  of  Lafayette  leaped  up ;  yet  so  distant 
as  to  promise  no  easy  conquest.  Somewhere  down  the  gorge  I  heard 
the  roar  of  a  brook  ;  then  the  report  of  the  cannon  at  Echo  Lake ;  but 
up  here  there  was  no  echo. 


244  '^^^    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

The  usual  indications  now  assured  me  that  I  was  nearing  the  top. 
In  three-quarters  of  an  hour  from  the  time  of  leaving  the  natural  bridge, 
joining  Eagle  Cliff  with  the  mountain,  I  stood  upon  the  first  of  the  great 
billows  which,  rolling  in  to  a  common  centre,  appear  to  have  forced  the 
true  summit  a  thousand  feet  higher. 

The  first,  perhaps  the  most  curious,  thing  that  I  noticed  —  for  one 
hardly  suspects  the  existence  of  considerable  bodies  of  water  in  these 
high  regions,  and,  therefore,  never  comes  upon  them  except  unawares 
—  was  two  little  lakelets,  nestling  in  the  hollow  between  me  and  the 
main  peak.  Reposing  amid  the  sterility  of  the  high  peaks,  these  lakes 
surround  themselves  with  such  plants  as  have  survived  the  ascent  from 
below,  or,  nourished  by  the  snows  of  the  summit,  those  that  never  do  de- 
scend into  temperate  climates.  Thus  an  appearance  of  fertility — one  of 
those  deceptions  that  we  welcome,  knowing  it  to  be  such — greets  us  un- 
expectedly. But  its  appearance  is  weird  and  forbidding.  Here  the  ex- 
tremes of  arctic  and  temperate  vegetation  meet  and  embrace ;  here  the 
flowers  of  the  valley  annually  visit  their  pale  sisters,  banished  by  Nature 
to  these  Siberian  solitudes ;  and  here  the  rough,  strong  Alpine  grass, 
striking  its  roots  deep  among  the  atoms  of  sand,  granite,  or  flint,  lives 
almost  in  defiance  of  Nature  herself ;  and  when  the  snows  come  and 
the  freezing  north  winds  blow,  and  it  can  no  longer  stand  erect,  throws 
itself  upon  the  tender  plants,  like  a  brave  soldier  expiring  on  the  body 
of  his  helpless  comrade,  saved  by  his  own  devotion. 

But  these  Alpine  lakes  always  provoke  a  smile.  When  some  dis- 
tance beyond  the  Eagle  Lakes,  as  they  are  called,  and  higher,  I  caught, 
underneath  a  wooded  ridge  of  Cannon,  the  sparkle  of  one  hidden  among 
the  summits  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Notch.  The  immense,  solitary 
Kinsman  Mountain  overtops  Cannon  as  easily  as  Cannon  does  Eagle 
Cliff.  In  its  dark  setting  of  the  thickest  and  blackest  forests  this  lake 
blazed  like  one  of  the  enormous  diamonds  which  our  forefathers  so 
firmly  believed  existed  among  these  mountains.  They  call  this  water — 
only  to  be  discovered  by  getting  above  it — Lonesome  Lake,  and  in  sum- 
mer it  is  the  chosen  retreat  of  one  well  known  to  American  literature, 
whom  the  mountains  know,  and  who  knows  them. 

I  descended  the  slope  to  the  plateau  on  which  the  lakes  lie,  soon 
gaining  the  rush -grown  shore  of  the  nearest.  Its  water  was  hardly 
drinkable,  but  your  thirsty  climber  is  not  apt  to  be  too  fastidious. 
These  lakes  are  prettier  from  a  distance ;  the  spongy  and  yielding  moss, 


THE    KING     OF    FRANCO XI A. 


245 


ULOUD    EFFECTS   ON   MOUNT    LAFAYETTE. 


the  sickly  yellow  sedge  surrounding  them,  and  the  rusty  brown 
of  the  brackish  water,  do  not  invite  us  to  tarry  long. 

The  ascent  of  the  pinnacle  now  began.     It  is  too  much  a  repetition, 


246  THE     HEART     OF    THE     WHITE     JMOUNTAINS. 

though  by  no  means  as  toilsome,  of  the  Mount  Washington  climb  to 
merit  particular  description.  This  peak,  too,  seems  disinherited  by  Nat- 
ure. The  last  trees  encountered  are  the  stunted  firs  with  distorted  little 
trunks,  which  it  may  have  required  half  a  century  to  grow  as  thick  as 
the  wrist.  I  left  the  region  of  Alpine  trees  to  enter  that  of  gray  rocks, 
constantly  increasing  in  size  toward  the  summit,  where  they  were  con- 
fusedly piled  in  ragged  ridges,  one  upon  another,  looming  large  and 
threateningly  in  the  distance.  But  as  often  as  I  stopped  to  breathe  I 
scanned  "the  landscape  o'er"  with  all  the  delight  of  a  wholly  new  ex- 
perience. The  fascination  of  being  on  a  mountain -top  has  yet  to  be 
explained.     Perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  not  susceptible  of  analysis. 

After  gaining  the  highest  visible  point,  to  find  the  real  summit  still 
beyond,  I  stopped  to  drink  at  a  delicious  spring  trickling  from  under- 
neath a  large  rock,  around  which  the  track  wound.  I  was  now  among 
the  ruin  and  demolition  of  the  summit,  standing  in  the  midst  of  a  vast 
atmospheric  ocean. 

Had  I  staked  all  my  hopes  upon  the  distant  view,  no  choice  but 
disappointment  was  mine  to  accept.  Steeped  in  the  softest,  dreamiest 
azure  that  ever  dull  earth  borrowed  from  bright  heaven,  a  hundred 
peaks  lifted  their  airy  turrets  on  high.  These  castles  of  the  air — for  I 
will  maintain  that  they  were  nothing  else  —  loomed  with  enchanting 
grace,  the  nearest  like  battlements  of  turquoise  and  amethyst,  or,  reced- 
ing throusfh  infinite  gradations  to  the  merest  shadows,  seemed  but  the 
dusky  reflection  of  those  less  remote.  The  air  was  full  of  illusions. 
There  was  bright  sunshine,  yet  only  a  deluge  of  semi -opaque  golden 
vapor.  There  were  forms  without  substance.  See  those  iron -ribbed, 
deep-chested  mountains !  I  declare  it  seemed  as  if  a  swallow  might  fly 
through  them  with  ease !  Over  the  great  Twin  chain  were  traced,  ap- 
parently on  the  air  itself,  some  humid  outlines  of  surpassing  grace  which 
I  recosnized  for  the  srreat  White  Mountains.  It  was  a  dream  of  the 
great  poetic  past:  of  the  golden  age  of  Milton  and  of  Dante.  The 
mountains  seemed  dissolving  and  floating  away  before  my  eyes. 

Stretched  beneath  the  huge  land-billows,  the  valleys — north,  south, 
or  west — reflected  the  fervid  sunshine  with  softened  brilliance,  and  all 
those  white  farms  and  hamlets  spotting  them  looked  like  flakes  of  foam 
in  the  hollows  of  an  immense  ocean. 

Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  profane  such  a  scene  with  the  dry 
recital   of  this  view  or  that !     I  did  not   even  think  of  it.     A  study  of 


THE    KING     OF    FRANCONIA. 


247 


one  of  Nature's  most  capricious  moods  interested  me  far  more  than  a 
study  of  topography.  How  should  I  know  that  what  I  saw  were  moun- 
tains, when  the  earth  itself  was  not  clearly  distinguishable  ?  Alone,  sur- 
rounded by  all  these  delusions,  I  had,  indeed,  a  support  for  my  feet,  but 
none  whatever  for  the  bewildered  senses. 

I  found  the  mountain -top  untenanted  except  by  horse-flies,  black 
gnats,  and  active  little  black  spiders.  These  swarmed  upon  the  rocks. 
I  also  found  buttercups,  the  mountain-cranberry,  and  a  heath,  bearing  a 
little  white  flower,  blossoming  near  the  summit.  There  were  the  four 
walls  of  a  ruined  building,  a  cairn,  and  a  signal-staff  to  show  that  some 
one  had  been  before  me.  This  staff  is  5259  feet  above  the  ocean,  or 
3245  feet  above  the  summit  of  the  Franconia  Pass. 

The  ascent  required  about  three,  and  the  descent  about  two  hours. 
The  distance  is  not  much  less  than  four  miles ;  but,  these  miles  being  a 
nearly  uninterrupted  climb  from  the  base  to  the  summit  of  the  moun- 
tain, haste  is  out  of  the  question,  if  going  up,  and  imprudent,  if  coming 
down.  There  are  no  breakneck  or  dangerous  places  on  the  route ;  nor 
any  where  the  traveller  is  liable  to  lose  his  way,  even  in  a  fog,  except  on 
the  first  summit,  where  the  new  and  old  paths  meet,  and  where  a  guide- 
board  should  be  erected. 


248 


THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 


IV. 


FRANC  ONI  A,   AND    THE    NEIGHBORHOOD. 

Believe  if  thou  wilt  that  mountains  change  their  places,  but  believe  not  that  men  change 
their  dispositions. — Oriental  Prozicrh. 

ALTHOUGH  one  may  make  the  journey  from  the  Profile  House 
to  Bethlehem  with  greater  ease  and  rapidity  by  the  railway  re- 
cently constructed  along  the  side  of  the  Franconia  range,  preference  will 
unquestionably  be  given  to  the  old  way  by  all  who  would  not  lose  some 
of  the  most  sti-ikintr  views  the  neighborhood  affords.  Be2:innins:  near 
the  hotel,  the  railway  skirts  the  shore  of  Echo  Lake,  and  then  plunges 
into  a  forest  it  was  the  first  to  invade.  By  a  descent  of  one  hundred 
feet  to  the  mile,  for  nine  and  a  half  miles,  it  reaches  the  Ammonoosuc 
at  Bethlehem  station.  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  the  locomotive,  but 
then  I  should  not  like  to  go  through  the  gallery  of  the  Louvre  behind 
one. 


]  KANCONIA    i 

B 

S^ 

>M)   NOTCH. 

From  Echo  Lake  the  high-road  to  Franconia,  Littleton,  and  Bethle- 
hem winds  down  the  steep  mountain  side  into  the  valley  of  Gale  River. 


FRANC  ONI  A,    AND     THE     NEIGHBORHOOD.  249 

To  tlic  left,  in  the  middle  distance,  appear  the  little  church-tower  and 
white  buildings  constituting  the  village  of  Franconia  Iron  Works.  This 
village  is  charmingly  placed  for  effectively  commanding  a  survey  of  the 
amphitheatre  of  mountains  which  isolates  it  from  the  neighboring  towns 
and  settlements. 

As  we  come  down  the  three-mile  descent,  from  the  summit  of  the 
pass  to  the  level  of  the  deep  valley,  and  to  the  northern  base  of  the 
notch-mountains,  an  eminence  rises  to  the  left.  Half-way  up,  occupying 
a  well-chosen  site,  there  is  a  hotel,  and  on  the  high  ridge  another  com- 
mands not  only  this  valley,  but  also  those  lying  to  the  west  of  it.  On 
the  opposite  side  to  us  rise  the  green  heights  of  Bethlehem,  Mount 
Agassiz  being  conspicuous  by  the  observatory  on  its  summit.  Those 
farm-houses  dotting  the  hill-side  show  how  the  road  crooks  and  turns  to 
get  to  the  top.  Following  these  heights  westward,  a  deep  rift  indicates 
the'  course  of  the  stream  dividing  the  valley,  and  of  the  highway  to 
Littleton.  Between  these  walls  the  long  ellipse  of  fertile  land  beckons 
us  to  descend. 

I  am  always  most  partial  to  those  grassy  lanes  and  by-ways  going 
no  one  knows  where,  especially  if  they  have  well-sweeps  and  elm-trees 
in  them  ;  but  here  also  is  the  old  red  farm-house,  with  its  antiquated 
sweep,  its  colony  of  arching  elms,  its  wild-rose  clustering  above  the 
porch,  its  embodiment  of  those  magical  words,  "  Home,  sweet  home."  It 
fits  the  rugged  landscape  as  no  other  habitation  can.  It  fits  it  to  a  T, 
as  we  say  in  New  England.  More  than  this,  it  unites  us  with  another 
and  different  generation.  What  a  story  of  toil,  privation,  endurance 
these  old  walls  could  tell  !  How  genuine  the  surprise  with  which  they 
look  down  upon  the  more  modern  houses  of  the  village  !  Here,  too,  is 
the  Virginia  fence,  on  which  the  king  of  the  barn-yard  defiantly  perches. 
There  is  the  field  behind  it,  and  the  men  scattering  seed  in  the  fallow 
earth.  Yonder,  in  the  mowing-groimd.  a  laborer  is  sharpening  his  scythe, 
the  steel  ringing  musically  under  the  quick  strokes  of  his  "  rifle." 

Over  there,  to  the  left,  is  the  rustic  bridge,  and  hard  by  a  clump  of 
peeled  birches  throw  their  grateful  shade  over  the  hot  road.  Many  stop 
here,  for  the  white-columned  trunks  are  carved  with  initials,  some  freshly 
cut,  some  mere  scars.  But  why  mutilate  the  tree  .•^  What  signify  those 
letters,  that  every  idler  should  gratify  his  little  vanity  by  giving  it  a 
stab  ?  Do  you  know  that  the  birch  does  not  renew  its  bark,  and  that 
the  tree  thus  stripped  of  its  natural  protection  is  doomed?     Cease,  then, 


250 


THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 


I  pray  you,  this  senseless  mutilation;  nor  call  down  the  just  malediction 
of  the  future  traveller  for  destroying  his  shade.  Unable  to  escape  its 
fate,  the  poor  tree,  like  a  victim  at  the  stake,  stoically  receives  your  bar- 
barous strokes  and  gashes.  Refrain,  then,  traveller,  for  pity's  sake  ! 
Have  a  little  mercy  !  Know  that  the  ancients  believed  the  tree  pos- 
sessed of  a  soul.  Remember  the  touching  story  of  Adonis,  barbarously 
wounded,  surviving  in  a  pine,  where  he  weeps  eternally.  Consider  how 
often  is  the  figure  of  "The  Tree"  used  in  the  Scriptures  as  emblematic 
of  the  life  eternal  !     Who  would  wish  to  inhabit  a  treeless  heaven } 

The  stream — which  does  not  allow  us  to  forget  that  it  is  here — is  a 
vociferous  mountain  brook.  Hardly  less  forward  is  the  roadside  foun- 
tain gushing  into  a  water- 
trough  its  refreshing  abun- 
dance for  the  tired  and 
dusty  wayfarer.  It  makes 
no  difference  in  the  world 
whether  he  goes  on  two 
less  or  on  four.  "  Drink 
and  be  filled  "  is  the  invita- 
tion thus  generously  held 
out  to  all  alike.  With  what 
a  sigh  of  pleasure  your 
steaming  beast  lifts  his  re- 
luctant and  dripping  muz- 
zle from  the  cool  wave,  and 
after  satisfying  again  and 
again  his  thirst,  luxuriously 
immersing  his  nose  for  the 
third  and  fourth  time,  still 
pretends  to  drink  !  How  deliciously  light  and  limpid  and  sparkling  is 
the  water,  and  how  sweet !  How  it  cools  the  hot  blood  !  You  quaff 
nectar.  You  sip  it  as  you  would  champagne.  It  tastes  far  better,  you 
think,  pouring  from  this  half -decayed,  moss -crusted  spout  than  from 
iron,  or  bronze,  or  marble.  Come,  fellow-traveller,  a  bumper!  Fill 
high  !  God  bless  the  man  who  first  invented  the  roadside  fountain  ! 
He  was  a  true  benefactor  of  his  fellow-man. 

Turn   once  more  to  the  house.     A  little  girl  tosses  corn,  kernel  by 
kernel,  to  her  pet  chickens.     There  go  a  flight  of  pigeons  :   they  curvet 


THE    ROADSIDE    SPRING. 


FRANCONIA,    AND    THE    NEIGHBORHOOD.  251 

and  wheel,  and  settle  on  the  ridge-pole,  where  they  begin  to  flirt,  and 
strut,  and  coo.  The  men  in  the  field  look  up  at  the  top  of  the  moun- 
tain, to  see  if  it  is  not  yet  noon.  And  now  a  woman,  with  plump  bare 
arms,  coming  briskly  to  the  open  door,  puts  the  dinner-horn  to  her  lips 
with  one  hand  while  placing  the  other  lightly  upon  her  hip.  She  does 
not  know  that  act  and  attitude  are  alike  invitino-.      How  should  she  '^ 

Let  us  follow  the  pretty  stream  that  is  our  guide.  Franconia  has 
the  reputation  of  being  the  hottest  in  summer  and  in  winter  the  coldest 
of  the  mountain  villages.  It  is  hot.  The  houses  are  strung  along  the 
road  for  a  mile.  People  may  or  may  not  live  in  them :  you  see  nobody. 
One  modest  church-tower  catches  the  eye  for  a  moment,  and  then,  as  we 
enter  the  heart  of  the  village,  a  square  barrack  of  a  building,  just  across 
the  stream,  is  pointed  out  as  the  old  furnace,  which  in  times  past  gave 
importance  to  this  out-of-the-way  corner.  But  the  old  furnace  is  now 
deserted  except  by  cows  from  the  neighboring  pastures,  who  come  and 
go  through  its  open  doors  in  search  of  shade.  At  present  the  river, 
which  brings  its  music  and  its  freshness  to  the  very  doors  of  the  vil- 
lagers, is  the  only  busy  thing  in  the  place. 

During  the  I-lebellion  the  furnace  was  kept  busy  night  and  day,  turn- 
ing out  iron  to  be  cast  into  cannon.  The  very  hills  were  melted  down 
for  the  defence  of  the  imperilled  Union.  In  the  adjoining  town  of  Lis- 
bon the  discovery  of  gold-bearing  quartz  turned  the  heads  of  the  usu- 
ally steady-going  population.  The  precious  deposits  were  first  found  on 
the  Bailey  farm,  in  1S65,  and  similar  specimens  were  soon  detected  on 
the  farms  adjoining.  It  is  said  the  old  people  could  scarcely  be  made 
to  credit  these  reports  until  they  had  seen  and  handled  the  precious 
metal ;  for  the  country  had  been  settled  nearly  a  century,  and  the  pres- 
ence of  any  but  the  baser  ores  was  wholly  unsuspected  and  disbelieved. 

There  is  one  peculiarity,  common  to  all  these  mountain  villages,  to 
which  I  must  allude.  A  stranger  is  not  known  by  any  personal  peculi- 
arity, but  by  his  horse.  If  you  ask  for  such  or  such  a  person,  the 
chances  are  ten  to  one  you  will  immediately  be  asked  in  return  if  he 
drove  a  bay  horse,  or  a  black  colt,  or  a  brown  mare  with  one  white  ear; 
so  quick  are  these  lazy-looking  men,  that  loll  on  the  door-steps  or  spread 
themselves  out  over  the  shop-counters,  to  observe  what  interests  them 
most.  The  girls  here  know  the  points  of  a  horse  better  than  most  men, 
and  are  far  more  reckless  drivers  than  men.  To  a  man  who,  like  my- 
self, has  lived  in  a  horse-stealing  country,  it  does  look  queerly  to  see  the 


252  THE     HEART    OF    THE    WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

bani-doors  standing  open  at  night.     But  then  ever}'  country  lias  its  own 
customs. 

One  seeks  in  vain  for  any  scraps  of  history  or  tradition  that  might 
shed  even  a  momentary  lustre  upon  this  village  out  of  the  past.  Yet 
its  situation  invites  the  belief  that  it  is  full  of  both.  I3isappointed  in 
this,  we  at  least  have  an  inexhaustible  theme  in  the  dark  and  tranquil 
mountains  bending  over  us. 

Mount  Lafayette  presents  toward  Franconia  two  enormous  green 
billows,  rolled  apart,  the  deep  hollow  between  being  the  great  ravine 
dividing  the  mountain  from  base  to  summit.  Over  this  deep  incision, 
which,  from  the  irregularity  of  one  of  its  ridges,  looks  widest  at  the  top, 
presides,  with  matchless  dignity,  the  bared  and  craggy  peak  whose  dusky 
brown  gradually  mingles  with  the  scant  verdure  checked  hundreds  of 
feet  down.  With  what  hauteur  it  seems  to  regard  this  effort  of  Nature 
to  place  a  garland  on  its  bronzed  and  knotted  forehead!  One  can  never 
get  over  his  admiration  for  the  savage  grace  with  which  the  mountain, 
which  at  first  sight  seems  literally  thrown  together,  develops  a  beauty, 
a  harmony,  and  an  intelligence  giving  such  absolute  superiority  to  works 
of  Nature  over  those  of  man. 

The  side  of  Mount  Cannon  turned  toward  the  village  now  elevates 
two  almost  regular  triangular  masses,  one  rising  behind  the  other,  and 
both  surmounted  by  the  rounded  summit,  which,  except  in  its  mass,  has 
little  resemblance  to  a  mountain.  It  is  seen  that  on  two-thirds  of  these 
elevations  a  new  forest  has  replaced  the  original  growth.  Twenty -five 
years  ago  a  destructive  fire  raged  on  this  mountain,  destroying  all  the 
vegetation,  as  well  as  the  thin  soil  down  to  the  hard  rock.  Even  that 
was  cracked  and  peeled  like  old  parchment.  This  burning  mountain 
was  a  scene  of  startling  magnificence  during  several  nights,  when  the  vil- 
lage was  as  light  as  day,  the  sky  o\-erspread  an  angry  glow,  and  the  river 
ran  blood-red.  The  hump-backed  ridges,  connecting  Cannon  with  Kins- 
man, present  nearly  the  same  appearance  from  this  as  from  the  other 
side  of  the  Notch — or  as  remarked  when  approaching  from  Campton. 

The  superb  picture  seen  from  the  upper  end  of  the  valley,  combin- 
ing, as  it  does,  the  two  great  chains  in  a  single  glance  of  the  eye,  is  ex- 
tended and  improved  by  going  a  mile  out  of  the  village  to  the  school- 
house  on  the  .Sugar  Hill  road.  It  is  a  peerless  landscape.  I  have  gazed 
at  it  for  hours  with  that  ineffable  delight  which  baftles  all  power  of  ex- 
pression.    It  will  have  no  partakers.     One  must  go  there  alone  and  see 


FRANC  ONI  A,    AND     THE     NEIGHBORHOOD.  253 

the  setting  sun  paint  those  vast  shapes  with  colors  the  heavens  alone 
are  capable  of  producing. 

Distinguished  by  the  beautiful  groves  of  maple  that  adorn  its  crest, 
Sugar  Hill  is  destined  to  grow  more  and  more  in  the  popular  esteem. 
No  traveller  should  pass  it  by.  It  is  so  admirably  placed  as  to  com- 
mand in  one  magnificent  sweep  of  the  eye  all  the  highest  mountains;  it 
is  also  lifted  into  sun  and  air  by  an  elevation  sufificiently  high  to  reach 
the  cooler  upper  currents.  The  days  are  not  so  breathless  or  so  stifling 
as  they  are  down  in  the  valley.  You  look  deep  into  the  Franconia 
Notch,  and  watch  the  evening  shadows  creep  up  the  great  east  wall. 
Extending  beyond  these  nearer  mountains,  the  scarcely  inferior  Twin 
summits  pose  themselves  like  gigantic  athletes.  Passing  to  the  other 
side  of  the  valley,  we  see  as  far  as  the  pale  peaks  of  Vermont,  and 
those  rising  above  the  valley  of  Israel's  River.  But  better  than  all, 
grander  than  all,  is  that  kingly  coronet  of  great  mountains  set  on  the 
lustrous  green  cushion  of  the  valley.  Nowhere,  I  venture  to  affirm,  will 
the  felicity  of  the  title,  "  Crown  of  New  England," '  receive  more  unani- 
mous acceptance  than  from  this  favored  spot.  Especially  when  a 
canopy  of  clouds  overspreading  permits  the  pointed  peaks  to  reflect 
the  illuminated  fires  of  sunset  does  the  crown  seem  blazing  with  jewels 
and  precious  stones.  All  the  great  summits  are  visible  here,  and  all  the 
ravines,  except  those  in  Madison,  are  as  clearly  distinguished  as  if  not 
more  than  ten  instead  of  twenty  miles  separated  us. 

The  high  crest  of  Sugar  Hill  unfolds  an  unrivalled  panorama.  This 
is  but  faint  praise.  Yet  I  find  myself  instinctively  preferring  the  land- 
scape from  Goodenow's ;  for  those  great  horizons,  uncovered  all  at  once, 
like  a  magnificent  banquet,  are  too  much  for  one  pair  of  eyes,  however 
good,  or  however  unwearied  with  continued  sight -seeing.  As  we  can- 
not look  at  all  the  pictures  of  a  gallery  at  once,  we  naturally  single  out 
the  masterpieces.  The  effort  to  digest  too  much  natural  scenery  is  a 
species  of  intellectual  gluttony  the  overtaxed  brain  will  be  quick  to  re- 
venge, by  an  attack  of  indigestion  or  a  loss  of  appetite. 

I  was  very  fond  of  walking,  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  either  in  this 
direction   or  to   the   upper    end   of  the   village,  on   the    Bethlehem    road. 


'  This  name  was  given  to  his  picture  of  the  great  range,  in  possession  of  the  Prince  of 
Wales,  by  Mr.  George  L.  Brown,  the  eminent  landscape-painter.  The  canvas  represents  the 
summits  in  the  sumptuous  garb  of  autumn. 


254  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

There  is  one-  point  on  this  road,  before  it  begins  in  earnest  its  ascent 
of  the  heiglits,  that  became  a  favorite  haunt  of  mine.  Emerging  from 
the  conccahnent  of  thick  woods  upon  a  sandy  plain,  covered  here  with 
a  thick  carpet  of  verdure,  and  skirted  by  a  regiment  of  pines  seemingly 
awaiting  only  the  word  of  command  to  advance  into  the  valley,  a  land- 
scape second  to  none  that  I  have  seen  is  before  you.  At  the  same  time 
he  would  be  an  audacious  mortal  who  attempted  to  transfer  it  to  page 
or  canvas.  Nothing  disturbs  the  exquisite  harmony  of  the  scene.  To 
the  left  of  you  are  all  the  White  Mountains,  from  Adams  to  Pleasant ; 
in  front,  the  Franconia  range,  from  Kinsman  to  the  Great  Haystack. 
Here  is  the  deep  rent  of  the  Notch  from  which  we  have  but  lately  de- 
scended. Here,  too,  overtopped  and  subjugated  by  the  superb  spire  of 
Lafayette,  the  long  and  curiously-distorted  outline  of  Eagle  Cliff  pitches 
headlong  down  into  the  half- open  aperture  of  the  pass.  Nothing  but 
an  earthquake  could  have  made  such  a  breach.  How  that  tremendous, 
earth -swooping  ridge  seems  battered  down  by  the  blows  of  a  huge 
mace!  Unspeakably  wild  and  stern,  the  fractured  mountains  are  to 
the  valley  what  a  raging  tempest  is  to  the  serenest  of  skies :  one  part 
of  the  heavens  convulsed  by  the  storm,  another  all  peace  and  calm. 
Thus  from  behind  his  impregnable  outworks  Lafayette,  stern  and  de- 
fiant, keeps  eternal  watch  and  ward  over  the  valley  cowering  at  his  feet. 

From  this  spot,  too,  sacred  as  yet  from  all  intrusion,  the  profound 
ravine,  descending  nearly  from  the  summ.it  of  Lafayette,  is  fully  exposed. 
It  is  a  thing  of  cracks,  crevices,  and  rents ;  of  upward  curves  in  brilliant 
light;  of  black,  mysterious  hollows,  which  the  eye  investigates  inch  by 
inch,  to  where  the  gorge  is  swallowed  up  by  the  thick  forests  under- 
neath. The  whole  side  of  the  principal  peak  seems  torn  away.  Up 
there,  among  the  snows,  is  the  source  of  a  flashing  stream  which  comes 
roaring  down  through  the  gorge.  Storms  swell  it  into  an  ungovernable 
and  raging  torrent.  Thus  under  the  folds  of  his  mantle  the  lordly  peak 
carries  peace  or  war  for  the  vale. 

After  the  half -stifled  feeling  experienced  among  the  great  moun- 
tains, it  is  indeed  a  rare  pleasure  to  once  more  come  forth  into  full 
breathing-space,  and  to  inspect  at  leisure  from  some  friendly  shade  the 
grandeur  magnified  by  distance,  yet  divested  of  excitements  that  set 
the  brain  whirling  by  the  rapidity  of  their  succession.  If  the  wayfarer 
chances  to  see,  as  I  did,  the  whole  noble  array  of  high  summits  pre- 
senting a  long,  snowy  line  of  unsullied  brilliance  against  a  background 


FRANCONIA,    AND     2' HE    NEIGHBORHOOD.  255 

of  pale  a/Airc,  he  will  account  it  one  of  the  crowning  enjoyments  of  his 
journey. 

The  Bridal  Veil  Falls,  lying  on  the  northern  slope  of  Mount  Kins- 
man, will,  when  a  good  path  shall  enable  tourists  to  visit  them,  prove 
one  of  the  most  attractive  features  of  Franconia.  Truth  compels  me 
to  say  that  I  did  not  once  hear  them  spoken  of  during  the  fortnight 
passed  in  the  village,  although  fishermen  were  continually  bringing  in 
trout  from  the  Copper- mine  Brook,  on  which  these  falls  are  situated. 
The  height  of  the  fall  is  given  at  seventy-six  feet,  and  its  surroundings 
are  said  to  be  of  the  most  romantic  and  picturesc[ue  character.  Its 
marvellous  transparency,  wdiich  permits  the  ledges  to  be  seen  through 
the  gauze-like  sheet  falling  over  them,  has  given  to  it  its  name. 

From  Franconia  I  took  the  daily  stage  to  Littleton,  which  lies  on 
both  banks  of  the  Ammonoosuc,  and,  turning  my  back  upon  the  high 
mountains,  ran  down  the  rail  to  Wells  River,  having  the  intention  of 
cultivating  a  more  intimate  acquaintance  with  that  most  noble  and  in- 
teresting entrance  formed  by  the  meeting  of  the  Ammonoosuc  with  the 
Connecticut. 


2^6  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 


V. 

THE    CONNECTICUT    ON-BOW. 

Say,  have  the  solid  rocks 
Into  streams  of  silver  been  melted. 
Flowing  over  the  plains, 
Spreading  to  lakes  in  the  fields? 

Longfellow. 

THE  Connecticut  is  justly  named  "the  beautiful  river,"  and  its  valley 
"  the  garden  of  New  England."  Issuing  from  the  heart  of  the 
northern  wilderness,  it  spreads  boundless  fertility  throughout  its  stately 
march  to  the  sea.  It  is  not  a  rapid  river,  but  flows  with  an  even  and 
majestic  tide  through  its  long  avenue  of  mountains.  Radiant  envoy  of 
the  skies,  its  mission  is  peace  on  earth  and  good-will  toward  men.  As 
it  advances  the  confluent  streams  flock  to  it  from  their  mountain  homes. 
On  one  side  the  Green  Mountains  of  Vermont  send  their  hundred  tribu- 
taries to  swell  its  flood;  on  the  other  side  the  White  Hills  of  New 
Hampshire  pour  their  impetuous  torrents  into  its  broad  and  placid 
bosom.  Two  States  thus  vie  with  each  other  in  contributing  the  wealth 
it  lavishes  with  absolutely  impartial  hand  along  the  shores  of  each. 

Unlike  the  storied  Rhine,  no  crumbling  ruins  crown  the  lofty  heights 
of  this  beautiful  river.  Its  verdant  hill-sides  everywhere  display  the  evi- 
dences of  thrift  and  happiness ;  its  only  fortresses  are  the  watchful  and 
everlasting  peaks  that  catch  the  earliest  beams  of  the  New  England  sun 
and  flash  the  welcome  signal  from  tower  to  tower.  From  time  to  time 
the  mountains,  which  seem  crowding  its  banks  to  see  it  pass,  draw  back, 
as  if  to  give  the  noble  river  room.  It  rewards  this  benevolence  with  a 
garden -spot.  Sometimes  the  mountains  press  too  closely  upon  it,  and 
the  offended  stream  repays  this  temerity  with  a  barrenness  equal  to  the 
beneficence  it  has  just  bestowed.  Where  it  is  permitted  to  expand  the 
amphitheatres  thus  created  are  the  highest  types  of  decorative  nature. 
Graciously  touching  first  one  shore  and  then  the  other,  making  the  love- 
liest windings  imaginable,  the  river  actually   seems   on   the  point  of  re- 


THE     CONNECTICUT    OX-BOW.  257 

tracing  its  steps;  but,  yielding  to  destiny,  it  again  resumes  its  slow 
march,  loitering  meanwhile  in  the  cool  shadows  of  the  mountains,  or 
indolently  stretching  itself  at  full  length  upon  the  green  carpet  of  the 
level  meadows.  Every  traveller  who  has  passed  here  has  seen  the 
Happy  Valley  of  Rasselas.' 

Such  is  the  renowned  Ox- Bow  of  Lower  Coos.  Tell  me,  you  who 
have  seen  it,  if  the  sight  has  not  caused  a  ripple  of  pleasurable  excite- 
ment .'' 

Here  the  Connecticut  receives  the  waters  of  the  Ammonoosuc,  flow- 
ing from  the  very  summit  of  the  White  Hills,  and,  in.  its  turn,  made  to 
guide  the  railway  to  its  own  birthplace  among  the  snows  of  Mount 
Washington.  Here  the  valley,  graven  in  long  lines  by  the  ploughshare, 
heaped  with  fruitful  orchards  and  groves,  extends  for  many  miles  up  and 
down  its  checkered  and  variegated  floor.  But  it  is  most  beautiful  be- 
tween the  villages  of  Newbury  and  Haverhill,  or  at  the  Great  and  Little 
Ox-Bow,  where  the  fat  and  fecund  meadows,  extending  for  two  miles 
from  side  to  side  of  the  valley,  resemble  an  Eden  upon  earth,  and  the 
villages,  prettily  arranged  on  terraces  above  them,  half-hid  in  a  thick 
fringe  of  foliage,  the  mantel-ornaments  of  their  own  best  rooms.  Only 
moderate  elevations  rise  on  the  Vermont  side;  but  the  New  Hampshire 
shore  is  upheaved  into  the  finely  accentuated  Benton  peaks,  behind 
which,  like  a  citadel  within  its  outworks,  is  uplifted  the  gigantic  bulk  of 
Moosehillock — the  greatest  mountain  of  all  this  valley,  and  its  natural 
landmark — keeping  strict  watch  over  it  as  far  as  the  Canadian  frontiers. 

The  traveller  approaching  by  the  Connecticut  Valley  holds  this  ex- 
quisite landscape  in  view  from  the  Vermont  side  of  the  river.  The 
tourist  who  approaches  by  the  valley  of  the  Merrimac  enjoys  it  from  the 
New  Hampshire  shore. 

The  large  village  of  Newbury,  usually  known  as  the  "  .Street,"  is  built 
along  a  plateau,  rising  well  above  the  intervale,  and  joined  to  the  foot- 
hills of  the  Green  Mountains.  The  Passumpsic  Railway  coasts  the  in- 
tervale, just  touching  the  northern  skirt  of  the  village.  The  village  of 
Haverhill  is  similarly  situated  with  respect  to  the  skirt  of  the  White 
Mountains;    but   its  surface    is    much    more    uneven,  and   it    is    elevated 


'  The  true  source  of  the  Connecticut  remained  so  long  in  doubt  that  it  passed  into  a  by- 
word. Cotton  Mather,  speaking  of  an  ecclesiastical  quarrel  in  Hartford,  says  that  it  \v;is  al- 
most as  obscure  as  the  rise  of  the  Connecticut  River. 

2  I 


258  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

higher  above  the  valley  than  its  opposite  neighbor.  The  Boston,  Con- 
cord, and  Montreal  Railway,  having  crossed  the  divide  between  the  wa- 
ters of  the  Merrimac  and  the  Connecticut,  now  follows  the  his^h  level, 
after  a  swift  descent  from  Warren  Summit.  These  plateaus,  or  ter- 
races, forming  broken  shelves,  first  upon  one  side  of  the  valley,  then 
upon  the  other,  strongly  resemble  the  remains  of  the  ancient  bed  of  a 
river  of  tenfold  the  magnitude  of  the  stream  as  we  see  it  to-day.  They 
give  rise  at  once  to  all  those  interesting  conjectures,  or  theories,  which  are 
considered  the  special  field  of  the  geologist,  but  are  also  equally  attrac- 
tive to  every  intelligent  observer  of  Nature  and  her  wondrous  works. 

Of  these  two  villages,  which  are  really  subdivided  into  half  a  dozen, 
and  which  so  beautifully  decorate  the  mountain  walls  of  this  valley,  it  is 
no  treason  to  the  Granite  State  to  say  that  Newbury  enjoys  a  preference 
few  will  be  found  to  dispute.  It  has  the  grandest  mountain  landscape. 
Moosehillock  is  lifted  high  above  the  Benton  range,  which  occupies  the 
foreground.  The  whole  background  is  filled  with  high  summits — Lafay- 
ette feeling  his  way  up  among  the  clouds,  Moosehillock  roughly  pushing 
his  out  of  the  throng.  Meadows  of  emerald,  river  of  burnished  steel, 
hill-sides  in  green  and  buff,  and  etched  with  glittering  hamlets,  gray 
mountains,  bending  darkly  over,  cloud-detaining  peaks,  vanishing  in  the 
far  east  —  surely  fairer  landscape  never  brought  a  glow  of  pleasure  to 
the  check,  or  kindled  the  eye  of  a  traveller,  already  sated  with  a  pano- 
rama reaching  from  these  mountains  to  the  Sound. 

We  are  now,  I  imagine,  sufficiently  instructed  in  the  general  char- 
acteristics of  the  famed  Ox-Bow  to  pass  from  its  picturesque  and  topo- 
graphical features  into  the  domain  of  history,  and  to  summon  from  the 
past  the  details  of  a  tragedy  in  war,  which,  had  it  occurred  in  the 
days  of  Homer,  would  have  been  embalmed  in  an  epic.  Our  history 
bep^ins  at  a  period  before  any  white  settlement  existed  in  the  region 
immediately  about  us.  No  wonder  the  red  man  relinquished  it  only  at 
the  point  of  the  bayonet.  It  was  a  country  worth  fighting  for  to  the 
bitter  end. 


THE     SACK     OF    ST.    FRANCIS    DE     SALES.  259 


VI. 

THE    SACK    OF    ST.   FRANCIS    DE    SALES. 
"  L'histoire  a  sa  veritt- ;  la  legende  a  la  sienne." 

IN  the  month  of  September,  1759,  the  army  of  Sir  Jeffrey  Amherst 
was  in  cantonments  at  Crown  Point.  A  picked  corps  of  American 
rangers,  commanded  by  Robert  Rogers,  was  attached  to  this  army.  One 
day  an  aide-de-camp  brought  Rogers  an  order  to  repair  forthwith  to 
head -quarters,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  ranger  entered  the  general's 
marquee. 

"  At  your  orders,  general,"  said  the  ranger,  making  his  salute. 

"About  that  accursed  hornet's-nest  of  St.  Francis?"  said  the  a:eneral, 
frowning. 

"When  I  was  a  lad,  your  excellency,  we  used  to  burn  a  hornet's-nest, 
if  it  became  troublesome,"  observed  Rogers,  significantly. 

"And  how  many  do  you  imagine,  major,  this  one  has  stung  to  death 
in  the  last  six  years  ?"  inquired  General  Amherst,  fumbling  among  his 
papers. 

"  I  don't  know ;  a  great  many,  your  excellency." 

"  Six  hundred  men,  women,  and  children." 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  a  moment  without  speaking. 

"  At  this  rate,"  continued  the  general,  "  his  Majesty's  New  England 
provinces  will  soon  be  depopulated." 

"  For  God's  sake,  general,  put  a  stop  to  this  butchery !"  ejaculated 
the  exasperated  ranger. 

"  That's  exactly  what  I  have  sent  for  you  to  do.  Here  are  your 
orders.  You  are  commanded,  and  I  expect  you  to  destroy  that  nest  of 
vipers,  root  and  branch.  Remember  the  atrocities  committed  by  these 
Indian  scoundrels,  and  take  your  revenge;  but  remember,  also,  that  I 
forbid   the   killing    of  women    and   cliildren.      Exterminate   the   fighting- 


26o 


THE     HEART     OE     THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 


ROBERT   ROGERS. 


men,  but  spare  the   non-combatants.     That  is  war.     Now  make   an   end 
of  St.  Francis  once  and  for  all." 

Nearly  a  hundred  leagues  separated  the  Abenaqui  village  from  the 
English ;  and  we  should  add  that  once  there,  in  the  heart  of  the  ene- 
my's country,  all  idea  of  help  from  the  army  must  be  abandoned,  and 
the  rangers,  depending  wholly  upon  themselves,  be  deprived  of  every 
resource  except  to  cut  their  way  through  all  obstacles.  But  this  was 
exactly  the  kind  of  service  for  which  this  distinctive  body  of  American 
soldiers  was  formed. 


THE     SACK     OF    ST.   FRANCIS    DR     SALES.  261 

Sir  Jeffrey  Amherst  had  said  to  Rogers,  "Go  and  wipe  out  St. 
Francis  for  me,"  precisely  as  he  would  have  said  to  his  orderly,  "  Go  and 
saddle  my  horse." 

But  this  illustrates  the  high  degree  of  confidence  which  the  army 
reposed  in  the  chief  of  the  rangers.  The  general  knew  that  this  expe- 
dition demanded,  at  every  stage,  the  highest  qualities  in  a  leader.  Rog- 
ers had  already  proved  himself  possessed  of  these  qualities  in  a  hundred 
perilous  encounters. 

That  night,  without  noise  or  display,  the  two  hundred  men  detailed 
for  the  expedition  left  their  encampment,  which  was  habitually  in  the 
van  of  the  army.  On  the  evening  of  the  twenty-second  day  since  leav- 
ing Crown  Point  a  halt  was  ordered.  The  rangers  were  near  their 
destination.  From  the  top  of  a  tree  the  doomed  village  was  discovered 
three  miles  distant.  Not  the  least  sign  that  the  presence  of  an  enemy 
was  suspected  could  be  seen  or  heard.  The  village  wore  its  ordinary 
aspect  of  profound  security.*  Rogers  therefore  commanded  his  men  to 
rest,  and  prepare  themselves  for  the  work  in  hand. 

At  eight  in  the  evening,  having  first  disguised  himself,  Rogers  took 
Lieutenant  Turner  and  Ensign  Avery,  and  with  them  reconnoitred  the 
Indian  town.  He  found  it  the  scene  of  high  festivity,  and  for  an  hour 
watched  unseen  the  unsuspecting  inhabitants  celebrating  with  dancing 
and  barbaric  music  the  nuptials  of  one  of  the  tribe.  All  this  marvel- 
lously favored  his  plans.  Not  dreaming  of  an  enemy,  the  savages  aban- 
doned themselves  to  unrestrained  enjoyment  and  hilarity.  'Y\\t  fete  was 
protracted  until  a  late  hour  under  the  very  eyes  of  the  spies,  who,  find- 
ing themselves  unnoticed,  crept  boldly  into  the  village,  where  they  exam- 
ined the  ground  and  concerted  the  plan  of  attack. 

At  length  all  was  hushed.  The  last  notes  of  revelry  faded  on  the 
still  night  air.  One  by  one  the  drowsy  merry-makers  retired  to  their 
lodges,  and  soon  the  village  was  wrapped  in  profound  slumber — the  slum- 
ber of  death.  This  was  the  moment  so  anxiously  awaited  by  Rogers. 
Time  was  precious.  He  quickly  made  his  way  back  to  the  spot  where 
the  rangers  were  lying  on  their  arms.  One  by  one  the  men  were 
aroused  and  fell  into  their  places.  It  was  two  in  the  morning  when 
he  left  the  village.  At  three  the  whole  body,  moved  stealthily  up  to 
within  five  hundred  yards  of  the  village,  where  the  men  halted,  threw 
off  their  packs,  and  were  formed  for  the  assault  in  three  divisions. 
The  village  continued  silent  as  the  grave. 


262  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

St.  Francis  was  a  village  of  about  forty  or  fifty  wigwams,  thrown 
together  in  a  disorderly  clump.  In  the  midst  was  a  chapel,  to  which 
the  inhabitants  were  daily  summoned  by  matin  and  vesper  bell  to  hear 
the  holy  father,  whose  spiritual  charge  they  were,  celebrate  the  mass. 
The  place  was  enriched  with  the  spoil  torn  from  the  English  and  the 
ransom  of  many  miserable  captives.  We  have  said  that  these  Indians 
had  slain  and  taken,  in  si.x  years,  six  hundred  English :  that  is  equiva- 
lent to  one  hundred  every  year. 

The  knowledge  of  numberless  atrocities  nerved  the  arms  and  steeled 
the  hearts  of  the  avengers.  When  the  sun  began  to  brighten  the  east 
the  three  bands  of  rangers,  waiting  eagerly  for  the  signal,  rushed  upon 
the  village. 

A  deplorable  and  sickening  scene  of  carnage  ensued.  The  surprise 
was  complete.  The  first  and  only  warning  the  amazed  savages  had 
were  the  volleys  that  mowed  them  down  by  scores  and  fifties.  Eyes 
heavy  with  the  carousal  of  the  previous  night  opened  to  encounter  an 
appalling  carnival  of  butchery  and  horror.  Two  of  the  stoutest  of  the 
rangers — Farrington  and  Bradley  —  led  one  of  the  attacking  columns 
to  the  door  where  the  wedding  had  taken  place.  Finding  it  barred,  they 
threw  themselves  so  violently  against  it  that  the  fastenings  gave  way, 
precipitating  Bradley  headlong  among  the  Indians  who  were  asleep  on 
their  mats.  All  these  were  slain  before  they  could  make  the  least  re- 
sistance. 

On  all  sides  the  axe  and  the  rifle  were  soon  reaping  their  deadly 
harvest.  Those  panic-stricken,  half-dazed  wretches  who  rushed  pell-mell 
into  the  streets  either  ran  stupidly  upon  the  uplifted  weapons  of  the 
rangers  or  were  shot  down  by  squads  advantageously  posted  to  receive 
them.  A  few  who  ran  this  terrible  gauntlet  plunged  into  the  river 
flowing  before  the  village,  and  struck  boldly  out  for  the  opposite  shore ; 
but  the  avengers  had  closed  every  avenue  of  escape,  and  the  fugitives 
were  picked  off  from  the  banks.  The  same  fate  overtook  those  who 
tumbled  into  their  canoes  and  pushed  out  into  the  stream.  The  frail 
barks  were  riddled  with  shot,  leaving  their  occupants  an  easy  target  for 
a  score  of  rifles.  The  incessant  flashes,  the  explosions  of  musketry,  the 
shouts  of  the  assailants,  and  the  yells  of  their  victims  were  all  mingled 
in  one  horrible  uproar.  For  two  hours  this  massacre  continued.  Com- 
bat it  cannot  be  called.  Rendered  furious  by  the  sight  of  hundreds  of 
scalps  waving  mournfully  in  the  night -wind  in  front  of  the  lodges,  the 


THE     SACK     OF    ST.   FRANC/S    BE     SALES.  263 

pitiless  assailants  hunted  the  doomed  savages  down  like  blood -hounds. 
Every  shot  was  followed  by  a  deatli- whoop,  every  stroke  by  a  howl  of 
agony.  For  two  horrible  hours  the  village  shook  with  explosions  and 
echoed  with  frantic  outcries.  It  was  then  given  up  to  pillage,  and  then 
to  the  torch,  and  all  those  who  from  fear  had  hid  themselves  perished 
miserably  in  the  flames.  At  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  all  was  over. 
Silence  once  more  enveloped  the  hideous  scene  of  conflagration  and 
slaughter.  The  village  of  St.  Francis  was  the  funeral  pyre  of  two  hun- 
dred warriors.  Rogers  had  indeed  taken  the  fullest  revenge  enjoined 
by  Sir  Jeffrey  Amherst's  orders. 

From  this  point  our  true  history  passes  into  the  legendary. 

While  the  sack  of  St.  Francis  was  going  on  a  number  of  the  Abena- 
quis  took  refuge  in  the  little  chapel.  Their  retreat  was  discovered.  A 
few  of  their  assailants  having  collected  in  the  neighborhood  precipitated 
themselves  toward  it,  with  loud  cries.  Others  ran  up.  Two  or  three 
blows  with  the  butt  of  a  musket  forced  open  the  door,  when  the  build- 
ing was  instantly  filled  with  armed  men. 

An  unforeseen  reception  awaited  them.  Lighted  candles  burnt  on 
the  high  altar,  shedding  a  mild  radiance  throughout  the  interior,  and 
casting  a  dull  glow  upon  the  holy  vessels  of  gold  and  silver  upon  the 
altar.  At  the  altar's  foot,  clad  in  the  sacred  vestments  of  his  office, 
stood  the  missionary,  a  middle-aged,  vigorous -looking  man,  his  arms 
crossed  upon  his  breast,  his  face  lighted  up  with  the  exaltation  of  a 
martyr.  Face  and  figure  denoted  the  high  resolve  to  meet  fate  half-way. 
Behind  him  crouched  the  knot  of  half- crazed  savasfes,  who  had  fled  to 
the  sanctuary  for  its  protection,  and  who,  on  seeing  their  mortal  enemies, 
instinctively  took  a  posture  of  defence.  The  priest,  at  two  or  three 
paces  in  advance  of  them,  seemed  to  offer  his  body  as  their  rampart. 
The  scene  was  worthy  the  pencil  of  a  Rembrandt. 

At  this  sight  the  intruders  halted,  the  foremost  even  falling  back  a 
step,  but  the  vessels  of  gold  and  silver  inflamed  their  cupidity  to  the 
highest  pitch ;  while  the  hostile  attitude  of  the  warriors  was  a  menace 
men  already  steeped  in  bloodshed  regarded  a  moment  in  still  more 
threatening  silence,  and  then  by  a  common  impulse  recognized  by  cover- 
ing the  forlorn  group  with  their  rifles. 

Believing  the  critical  moment  come,  the  priest  threw  up  his  hands 
in  an  attitude  of  supplication,  arresting  the  fatal  volley  as  much  by  the 
dignity  of  the  gesture  itself,  as  by  the  resonant  voice  which  exclaimed. 


264  THE     HEART    OF     THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

in  French,  "  Madmen,  for  pity's  sake,  for  the  sake  of  Him  on  the  Cross, 
stay  your  hands !  This  violence !  What  is  your  will  ?  What  seek  ye 
in  the  house  of  God  ?" 

A  gunshot  outside,  followed  by  a  mournful  howl,  was  his  sole  re- 
sponse. 

The  priest  shuddered,  and  his  crisped  lips  murmured  an  avc.  He 
comprehended  that  another  soul  had  been  sent,  unshriven,  to  its  final 
account. 

"  Hear  him !"   said  a  ransfer,  in   a   mocking  undertone ;  "  his   gabble 

o  o  o 

minds  me  of  a  flock  of  wild  geese." 

A  burst  of  derisive  laughter  followed  this  coarse  sally. 

In  fact,  they  had  not  too  much  respect  for  the  Church  of  Rome,  these 
wild  woodsmen,  but  were  filled  with  ineradicable  hatred  for  its  mission- 
aries, domesticated  among  their  enemies,  in  whom  they  believed  they 
saw  the  real  heads  of  the  tribes,  and  the  legitimate  objects,  therefore,  of 
their  vengeance. 

"Yield,  Papist!  Come,  you  shall  have  good  quarter;  on  the  word  of 
a  ranger  you  shall,"  cried  an  authoritative  voice,  the  speaker  at  the  same 
time  advancing  a  step,  and  dropping  his  rifle  the  length  of  his  sinewy 
arms. 

"  Never !"  answered  the  ecclesiastic,  crossing  himself. 

A  suppressed  voice  from  behind  hurriedly  murmured  in  his  ear, 
''  Ecouiez :  rendcz-vous,  mon  plre :  je  vans  en  supplie  T 

^'''Jamais !  niicnx  vaitt  la  mort  que  la  misericordc  dc  brigands  et  meur- 
triers !"  ejaculated  the  missionary,  rejecting  the  counsel  also,  with  a  ve- 
hement shake  of  the  head. 

"  Grand  Dicu  I  tout,  done,  est  Jin i"  sighed  the  voice,  despairingly. 

The  rangers  understood  the  gesture  better  than  the  words.  An 
ofificer,  the  same  who  had  just  spoken,  again  impatiently  demanded,  this 
time  in  a  higher  and  more  threatening  key, 

"A  last  time!     Do  you  yield  or  no?     Answer,  friar!" 

The  priest  turned  quickly,  took  the  consecrated  Host  from  the  altar, 
elevated  it  above  his  head,  and,  in  a  voice  that  was  long  remembered  by 
those  who  heard  it,  e.xclaimed, 

"  To  your  knees,  monsters  !  to  your  knees  !" 

W^hat  the  ranger  understood  of  this  pantomime  and  this  command 
was  that  they  conveyed  a  scornful  and  a  final  refusal.  Muttering  under 
his  breath,  "  Your  blood  be   upon  your  own  head,  then,"  he  levelled  his 


THE     SACK    OF    ST.    FRANCIS     DE     SALES.  265 

gun  and  pulled  the  trigger.  A  general  discharge  from  both  sides  shook 
the  building,  filling  it  with  thick  and  stifling  smoke,  and  instantly  extin- 
guishing the  lights.  The  few  dim  rays  penetrating  the  windows,  and 
which  seemed  recoiling  from  the  frightful  spectacle  within,  enabled  the 
combatants  vaguely  to  distinguish  each  other  in  the  obscurity.  Not  a 
cry  was  heard ;  nothing  but  quick  reports  or  blows  signaled  the  progress 
of  this  lugubrious  combat. 

This  butchery  continued  ten  minutes,  at  the  end  of  which  the 
rangers,  with  the  exception  of  one  of  their  number  killed  outright,  issued 
from  the  chapel,  after  having  first  stripped  the  altar,  despoiled  the  shrine 
of  its  silver  image  of  the  Virgin,  and  flung  the  Host  upon  the  ground. 
While  this  profanation  was  enacting  a  voice  rose  from  the  lieap  of  dead 
at  the  altar's  foot,  which  made  the  boldest  heart  among  the  rangers  stop 
beating.     It  said, 

"  The  Great  Spirit  of  the  Abenaquis  will  scatter  darkness  in  the  path 
of  the  accursed  Pale-faces!  Hunger  walks  before  and  Death  strikes  their 
trail !  Their  wives  weep  for  the  warriors  that  do  not  return  I  Manitou 
is  angry  when  the  dead  speak.     The  dead  have  spoken  !" 

The  torch  was  then  applied  to  the  chapel,  and,  like  the  rest  of  the 
village,  it  was  fast  being  reduced  to  a  heap  of  cinders.  But  now  some- 
thing singular  transpired.  As  the  rangers  filed  out  from  the  shambles 
the  bell  of  the  little  chapel  began  to  tolL  In  wonder  and  dread  they  lis- 
tened to  its  slow  and  measured  strokes  until,  the  flames  having  mounted 
to  the  belfrv,  it  fell  with  a  loud  clans:  amonor  the  ruins.  The  ransers 
hastened  onward.  This  unexpected  sound  already  filled  them  with 
gloomy  forebodings. 

After  the  stern  necessities  of  their  situation  rendered  a  separation  the 
sole  hope  of  successful  retreat,  the  party  which  carried  along  with  it  the 
silver  image  was  so  hard  pressed  by  the  Indians,  and  by  a  still  more  re- 
lentless enemy,  famine,  that  it  reached  the  banks  of  the  Connecticut  re- 
duced to  four  half -starved,  emaciated  men.  More  than  once  had  they 
been  on  the  point  of  flinging  their  burden  into  some  one  of  the  torrents 
every  hour  obstructing  their  way ;  but  as  one  after  another  fell  exhausted 
or  lifeless,  the  unlucky  image  passed  from  hand  to  hand,  and  was  thus 
preserved  up  to  the  moment  so  eagerly  and  so  confidently  looked  for, 
during  that  long  and  dreadful  march,  to  end  all  their  privations. 

But  the  chastisement  of  heaven,  prefigured  in  the  words  of  the  expir- 
ing Abenaqui,  had  already  overtaken   them.      Half- crazed  by  their  suf- 


2  66  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

ferings,  they  mistook  the  place  of  rendezvous  appointed  by  their  chief, 
and,  having  no  tidings  of  their  comrades,  believed  themselves  to  be  the 
sole  survivors  of  all  that  gallant  but  ill-fated  band.  In  this  conviction, 
to  which  a  mournful  destiny  conducted,  they  took  the  fatal  determina- 
tion to  cross  the  mountains  under  the  guidance  of  one  of  their  number 
who  had,  or  professed,  a  knowledge  of  the  way  through  the  Great  Notch 
of  the  White  Hills. 

For  four  days  they  dragged  themselves  onward  through  thickets, 
through  deep  snows  and  swollen  streams,  without  sustenance  of  any 
kind,  when  three  of  them,  in  consequence  of  their  complicated  miseries, 
aggravated  by  finding  no  way  through  the  wall  of  mountains,  lost  their 
senses.  What  leather  covered  their  cartouch- boxes  they  had  already 
scorched  to  a  cinder  and  greedily  devoured.  At  length,  on  the  last  days 
of  October,  as  they  were  crossing  a  small  river  dammed  by  logs,  they 
discovered  some  human  bodies,  not  only  scalped,  but  horribly  mangled, 
which  were  supposed  to  be  some  of  their  own  band.  But  this  was  no 
time  for  distinctions.  On  them  they  accordingly  fell  like  cannibals,  their 
impatience  being  too  great  to  await  the  kindling  of  a  fire  to  dress  their 
horrid  food  by.  When  they  had  thus  abated  somewhat  the  excruciating 
pangs  they  before  endured,  the  fragments  were  carefully  collected  for  a 
future  store. 

My  pen  refuses  to  record  the  dreadful  extremities  to  which  starvation 
reduced  these  miserable  wretches.  At  length,  after  some  days  of  fruit- 
less wandering  up  and  down,  finding  the  mountains  inexorably  closing 
in  upon  them,  even  this  last  dreadful  resource  failed,  and,  crawling  under 
some  rocks,  they  perished  miserably  in  the  delirium  produced  by  hunger 
and  despair,  blaspheming,  and  hurling  horrible  imprecations  at  the  silver 
image,  to  which,  in  their  insanity,  they  attributed  all  their  sufferings. 
One  of  them,  seizing  the  statue,  tottered  to  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  and, 
exerting  all  his  remaining  strength,  dashed  it  down  into  the  gulf  at  his 
feet. 

Tradition  afifirms  that  the  first  settlers  who  ascended  Israel's  River 
found  relics  of  the  lost  detachment  near  the  foot  of  the  mountains ;  but, 
notwithstanding  the  most  diligent  search,  the  silver  image  has  thus  far 
eluded  every  effort  made  for  its  recovery. 


MOOSE  HILLOCK.  267 


VII. 

MOOSEHILLOCK. 

■     And  so,  when  restless  and  adrift,  I  keep 
Great  comfort  in  a  quietness  lil<e  this, 
An  awful  strength  that  lies  in  fearless  sleep, 

On  this  great  shoulder  lay  my  head,  nor  miss 
The  things  I  longed  for  but  an  hour  ago. 

Sarah  O.  Jewett. 

MOOSEHILLOCK,  or  Moosilauke,'  is  one  of  four  or  five  summits 
from  which  the  best  idea  of  the  whole  area  of  the  White  Moun- 
tains may  be  obtained.  It  is  not  so  remarkable  for  its  form  as  for  its 
mass.     It  is  an  immense  mountain. 

Lifted  in  solitary  grandeur  upon  the  extreme  borders  of  the  army  of 
peaks  to  which  it  belongs,  and  which  it  seems  defending,  haughtily  over- 
bearing those  lesser  summits  of  the  Green  Mountains  confronting  it 
from  the  opposite  shores  of  the  Connecticut,  which  here  separates  the 
two  grand  systems,  like  two  hostile  armies,  the  one  from  the  other, 
Moosehillock  resembles  a  crouching  lion,  magnificent  in  repose,  but  ter- 
rible in  its  awakening. 

This  immense  strength,  paralyzed  and  helpless  though  it  seems,  is 
nevertheless  capable  of  arousing  in  us  a  sentiment  of  respectful*  fear — 
respect  for  the  creative  power,  fear  for  the  suspended  life  we  believe  is 
there.  The  mountain  really  seems  lying  extended  under  the  sky  listen- 
ing for  the  awful  command,  "  Arise  and  walk  !" 

'  This  orthography  is  of  recent  adoption.  By  recent  I  mean  within  thirty  )'ears.  Before 
that  time  it  was  always  Moosehillock.  Nothing  is  easier  than  to  unsettle  a  name.  So  far  as 
known,  I  believe  there  is  not  a  single  summit  of  the  White  Mountain  group  having  a  name 
given  to  it  by  the  Indians.  On  the  contrary,  the  Indian  names  have  all  come  from  the  white 
people.  That  these  are  sometimes  far-fetched  is  seen  in  Osceola  and  Tecumseh ;  that  they  are 
often  puerile,  it  is  needless  to  point  out.  Moosehillock  is  probably  no  exception.  It  is  not 
unlikely  to  be  an  English  nickname.  The  result  of  these  changes  is  that  the  people  inhab- 
iting the  region  contiguous  to  the  mountain  do  not  know  how  to  spell  the  name  on  their 
guide-boards. 


2  68  THE     HEART    OF     THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

This  mountain  received  a  name  before  Mount  Washington,  and  is  in 
some  respects,  as  I  hope  to  point  out,  the  most  interesting  of  the  whole 
group.  In  the  first  place,  it  commands  a  hundred  miles  of  the  Connecti- 
cut Valley,  including,  of  course,  all  the  great  peaks  of  the  Green  Moun- 
tain and  Adirondack  chains.  Again,  its  position  confers  decided  advan- 
tages for  studying  the  configuration  of  the  Franconia  group,  to  which,  in 
a  certain  sense,  it  is  allied,  and  of  the  ranges  enclosing  the  Pemigewas- 
set  Valley,  which  it  overlooks.  Moosehillock  stands  in  the  broad  angle 
formed  by  the  meeting  waters  of  the  Connecticut  and  the  Ammonoosuc. 
In  a  word,  it  is  an  advanced  bastion  of  the  whole  cluster  of  castellated 
summits,  constituting  the  White  Mountains  in  a  larger  meaning. 

Therefore  no  summit  better  repays  a  visit  than  Moosehillock  ;  yet 
it  is  astonishin.g,  considering  the  ease  of  access,  how  few  make  the 
ascent.  The  traveller  can  hardly  do  better  than  begin  here  his  expe- 
riences of  mountain  adventure,  should  chance  conduct  him  this  way; 
or,  if  making  his  exit  from  the  mountain  region  by  the  Connecticut  Val- 
ley, he  may,  taking  it  in  his  way.  out,  make  this  the  appropriate  pendant 
of  his  tours,  romantic  and  picturesque. 

Having  been  so  long  known  to  and  frequented  by  the  Indian  as  well 
as  white  hunters,  the  mountajn  is  naturally  the  subject  of  considerable 
legend,'  which  the  historian  of  Warren  has  scrupulously  gathered  to- 
gether. One  of  these  tales,  founded  on  the  disaster  of  Rogers,  recounts 
the  sufferings  of  two  of  his  men,  hopelessly  snared  in  the  great  Jobil- 
dunk  ravine.  But  that  tale  of  horror  needs  no  embellishment  from  ro- 
mance. This  enormous  rent,  equally  hideous  in  fact  as  in  name,  cut 
into  the  vitals  of  the  mountain  so  deeply  that  a  dark  stream  gushes  from 
the  gaping  wound,  conceals  within  its  mazes  several  fine  cascades.  Ow- 
ing to  long-continued  drought,  the  streams  were  so  puny  and  so  languid 
when  I  visited  the  mountain  that  I  explored  only  the  upper  portion  of 
the  gorge,  which  bristles  with  an  untamed  forest,  levelling  its  myriad 
spears  at  the  breast  of  the  climber. 

The  greater  part  of  the  mountain  lies  in  the  town  of  Benton,  or,  per- 
haps, it  would  be  nearer  the  truth  to  say  that  fully  half  the  township  is 
appropriated  by  its  prodigious  earthwork.     But,  to  reach  it  without  un- 


'  Speaking  of  legends,  that  of  Rubenzal,  of  the  Silesian  mountains,  is  not  unliiie  Irving's 
legend  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  and  the  Catskills.  Both  were  Dutch  legends.  The  Indian  legends 
of  Moosehillock  are  very  like  to  those  of  high  mountains,  everywhere. 


MOOSEHILLO  C  K . 


269 


dergoing  the  fatigues  of  a  long  march  tlirough  the  woods,  it  is  necessary 
to  proceed  to  the  village  of  W^arren,  which  is  twenty  miles  north  of 
Plymouth,  and  about  fourteen  south  of  Haverhill.  Behind  the  village 
rises  Mount  Carr.  Still  farther  to  the  north  the  summits  of  Mounts 
Kineo,  Cushman,  and  Waternomee,  continuing  this  range  now  separating 
us  from  the  Pemigewasset  Valley,  form  also  the  eastern  wall  of  the  valley 
of  Baker's  River,  which  has  its  principal  source  in  the  ravines  of  Moose- 
hillock.  There  is  a  bridle-path  opening  communication  with  the  moun- 
tain from  the  Benton  side,  on  the  north ;  and  so  with  Lisbon  and  P'ran- 
conia.  A  carriage-road  is  also  contemplated  on  that  side,  which  will 
render  access  still  more  feasible  for  a  large  summer  population ;  while  a 
bridle-path,  lately  opened  between  two  peaks  of  the  Carr  range,  facili- 
tates ingress  from  the  Pemigewasset  side. 

I  set  out  from  the  village  of  Warren  on  one  of  the  hottest  afternoons 
of  an  intensely  hot  and  dry  summer.  The  five  miles  between  the  village 
and  the  base  of  the  mountain  need  not  detain  the  sight-seer.  At  the 
crossing  of  Baker's  River  I  remarked  again  the  granite -bed  honey- 
combed with  those  curious  pot-holes  sunk  by  whirling  stones,  first  set 
in  motion  and  then  spun  around  by  the  stream,  which  here,  breaking 
up  into  several  wild  pitches,  pours  through  a  rocky  gorge.  But  how 
gratefully  cool  and  refreshing  was  even  the  sound  of  rushing  water  in 
that  still,  stifling  atmosphere,  coming,  one  would  think,  from  a  furnace ! 
Then  for  two  miles  more  the  horse  crept  along  the  road,  constantly  as- 
cending the  side  of  the  valley,  until  the  last  house  was  reached.  Here 
we  passed  a  turnpike-gate,  rolled  over  the  crisped  turf  of  a  stony  pasture 
through  a  second  gate,  and  were  at  the  foot  of  Moosehillock. 

In  a  trice  we  exchanged  the  sultriness,  the  dryness,  the  dust,  parching 
or  suffocating  us,  of  a  shadeless  road,  for  the  cool,  moist  air  of  the  moun- 
tain-forest and  the  delectable  sound  of  running  water.  A  brook  shot 
past ;  then  another ;  then  the  horse,  who  stopped  when  he  liked,  and  as 
often  as  he  liked,  like  a  man  forced  to  undertake  a  task  which  he  is  de- 
termined shall  cost  his  task-masters  dearly,  began  a  languid  progress  up 
the  increasing  declivity  before  us.  His  sighs  and  groans,  as  he  plodded 
wearily  along,  were  enough  to  melt  a  heart  of  stone.  I  therefore  dis- 
mounted and  walked  on,  leavinsj  the  driver  to  follow  as  he  could.  The 
question  was,  not  how  the  horse  should  get  us  up  the  mountain,  but  how 
we  should  get  the  horse  up. 

They  call  it  four  and  a  half  miles  from  the  bottom  to  the  top.     The 


.270         THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

distances  indicated  by  the  sign -boards,  nailed  to  trees,  did  not  appear 
to  me  exact.  They  are  not  exact ;  and  the  reason  why  they  are  not  is 
sufficiently  original  to  merit  a  word  of  explanation.  Having  long  ob- 
served the  effect  of  imagination,  especially  in  computing  distances,  the 
builder  of  the  road,  as  he  himself  informed  me,  adopted  a  truly  ingen- 
ious method  of  his  own.  He  lengthened  or  shortened  his  miles  accord- 
ing as  the  travelling  was  good  or  bad.  For  example :  the  first  mile,  be- 
ing an  easy  one,  was  stretched  to  a  mile  and  a  c|uarter.  The  last  mile 
is  also  very  good  travelling.  That,  too,  he  lengthened  to  a  mile  and  a 
half.  In  this  way  he  reduced  the  intervening  two  and  a  half  miles  of 
the  worst  road  to  one  and  three-fourth  miles.  This  absolutely  harmless 
piece  of  deception,  he  averred,  considerably  shortened  the  most  difficult 
part  of  the  journey.  No  one  complained  that  the  good  miles  were  too 
long,  while  the  bad  ones  were  now  passed  over  with  far  less  grumbling 
than  before  they  were  abbreviated  by  this  simple  expedient,  which  ver\' 
few,  I  am  convinced,  would  have  thought  of.  In  fact,  the  sum  of  the 
whole  distance  being  scrupulously  adhered  to,  it  is  the  most  civil  piece 
of  engineering  of  which  I  have  any  knowledge. 

The  road  up  is  rough,  tedious,  and,  until  the  ridge  at  the  foot  of 
the  south  peak  is  reached,  uninteresting.  It  crooks  and  turns  with  abso- 
lute lawlessness  while  climbing  the  flanks  of  the  southern  peak,  skirting 
also  the  side  of  the  profound  ravine  eating  its  way  into  the  mountain 
from  the  south.  Nearing  this  summit  we  obtained  through  an  opening 
a  glimpse  of  Mount  Washington,  veiled  in  the  clouds.  The  trees  now 
visibly  dwindled.  Just  before  reaching  the  ridge,  where  it  joins  this 
peak,  a  fine  spring,  deliciously  cold,  gushed  from  the  mountain  side. 
A  few  rods  more  of  ascent  brought  us  quite  out  upon  the  long,  narrow, 
curving  backbone  of  the  mountain,  uplifting  its  sharp  edge  between  two 
profound  gorges,  connecting  the  peaks  set  at  its  two  extremes,  between 
which  Nature  has  decreed  a  perpetual  divorce.  The  sun  was  just  set- 
ting as  we  emerged  upon  this  natural  wa)-  conducting  from  peak  to 
peak  along  the  airy  crest  of  the  mountain. 

Although  this,  it  will  be  remembered,  is  one  of  the  longest  miles, 
according  to  the  scale  of  computation  in  vogue  here,  the  unexpected 
speed  which  the  horse  now  put  forth,  the  sight  of  the  squat,  little  Tip- 
Top  House,  clinging  to  the  summit  beyond,  the  upper  and  nether  worlds 
floating  or  fading  in  splendor,  while  the  night- breezes  sweeping  over 
cooled  our  foreheads,  and  rudely  jostled  the  withered  trees,  drawn  a  little 


MOOSE  JUL  LOCK.  271 

apart  to  the  right  and  left  to  let  us  pass,  quickly  replaced  that  weari- 
ness of  mind  and  body  which  the  mountain  exacts  of  all  who  pass  over 
it  on  a  sultry  midsummer's  day. 

At  the  extremity  of  the  ridge,  which  is  only  wide  eilough  for  the 
road,  a  gradual  ascent  led  to  the  high  summit  and  to  a  level  plateau  of 
a  few  acres  at  its  top.  This  was  treeless,  but  covered  with  something 
like  soil,  smooth,  and,  being  singularly  free  from  the  large  stones  found 
everywhere  else,  affords  good  walking  in  any  direction.  The  house  is 
built  of  rough  stone,  and,  though  of  primitive  construction,  is  comforta- 
ble, and  even  inviting.  Furthermore,  its  materials  being  collected  on 
the  spot,  one  accepts  it  as  still  constituting  a  part  of  the  mountain, 
which,  indeed,  at  a  little  distance  it  really  seems  to  be.  In  the  evening 
I  went  out,  to  find  the  mountain  blindfolded  with  clouds.  Soon  rain 
began  to  drive  against  the  window-panes  in  volleys.  At  a  late  hour  we 
heard  wheels  grinding  on  the  rocks  outside,  and  then  a  party  of  tourists 
drove  up  to  the  door,  dripping  and  crestfallen  at  having  undertaken  the 
ascent  with  a  storm  staring  them  in  the  face.  But  they  had  only  this 
one  day,  they  said,  and  were  "bound"  to  go  up  the  mountain.  So  up 
they  toiled  through  pitch  darkness,  through  rain  and  cloud,  passed  the 
night  in  a  building  said  to  be  on  the  summit,  and  returned  down  the 
mountain  in  the  morning,  to  catch  their  train,  through  as  dense  a  fog  as 
ever  exasperated  a  hurried  tourist.  But  they  had  been  to  the  top !  Are 
there  anywhere  else  in  the  world  people  who  travel  two  hundred  miles 
for  a  single  day's  recreation  ? 

It  is  very  curious,  this  bemg  domesticated  on  the  top  of  a  mountain. 
We  go  to  bed  wondering  if  the  scene  will  not  all  vanish  in  our  dreams. 
It  was  very  odd,  too,  to  see  the  tourists  silently  mount  their  buck-board 
in  the  morning,  and  disappear,  within  a  stone's  throw,  in  clouds.  De- 
taching themselves  to  all  intents  from  earth,  they  began  a  flight  in  air. 
Walking  a  short  distance,  perhaps  a  gunshot,  from  the  house,  I  groped 
my  way  back  with  difficulty.     The  case  seemed  desperate. 

But  grandest  scene  of  all  was  the  breaking  up  of  the  storm.  Shortly 
after  noon  the  high  sun  began  to  exert  a  sensible  influence  upon  the 
clouds.  A  perceptible  warmth,  replacing  the  chill  and  clammy  mists, 
began  to  pervade  the  mountain -top.  Presently  a  dim  sun -ray  shot 
through.  Then,  as  if  a  noiseless  explosion  had  suddenly  rent  them,  the 
whole  mass  of  clouds  was  torn  in  ten  thousand  tatters  flying  through 
space.     All  nature  seemed  seized  with  sudden  frenzy.     Here  a  summit 


272  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

and  there  a  peak  was  seen,  struggling  fiercely  in  the  grasp  of  the  storm. 
Coming  up  with  rushing  noise,  the  west  wind  charged  home  the  routed 
storm-clouds  with  fresh  squadrons.  What  indescribable  yet  noiseless  tu- 
mult ragged  in  the  heavens !  Even  the  mountains  seemed  scarcely  able 
to  stem  the  tide  of  fugitives.  A  panic  seized  them.  Fear  gave  them 
wings.  They  rushed  pell-mell  into  the  ravines  and  clung  to  the  tree- 
tops  ;  they  dashed  themselves  blindly  against  the  adamant  of  Lafayette, 
only  to  fall  back  broken  into  the  deep  fosse  beneath.  Bolts  of  dazzling 
sunshine  continually  tore  through  them.  The  gorges  themselves  seemed 
heaped  with  the  wounded  and  the  dying.  But  the  rushing  wind,  tram- 
pling the  fugitives  down,  dispersed  and  cut  them  mercilessly  to  pieces. 
One  was  irresistibly  carried  away  by  this  rage  of  battle.  In  ten  minutes 
I  looked  around  upon  a  clear  sk}^  One  cloud,  impaled  on  the  gleam- 
ing spear  of  Lafayette,  hung  limp  and  lifeless ;  another  floated  like  a 
scarf  from  the  polished  casque  of  Chocorua;  a  third,  taken  prisoner  en 
roittc,  humbly  held  the  train  of  Washington.  All  the  rest  of  the  phan- 
tom host,  using  its  power  to  render  itself  invisible,  vanished  from  sight 
as  if  the  mountains  had  swallowed  it  up. 

The  landscape  being  now  fully  uncovered,  I  enjoyed  all  its  rare  per- 
fection. It  is  a  superb  and  fascinating  one,  invested  with  a  powerful 
individuality,  surrounded  by  a  charm  of  its  own.  You  wish  to  see  the 
two  great  chains }  There  they  are,  the  greater  rising  over  the  lesser,  in 
the  order  fixed  by  Nature.  That  sunny  space  in  the  softened  coloring  of 
old  tapestry,  more  to  the  right,  is  the  Pemigewasset  Valley,  and  the  spot 
from  where  not  long  ago  we  looked  up  at  this  mountain  looming  large 
in  the  distance.  We  raise  our  eyes  to  glance  up  the  East  Branch  upon 
Mount  Hancock  and  the  peaks  of  Carrigain  peeping  over.  We  touch 
with  magic  wand  the  faint  cone  of  Kearsarge,  so  dim  that  it  seems  as 
if  it  must  rise  and  float  away ;  then,  continuing  to  call  the  roll  of  moun- 
tains, Moat,  Tripyramid,  Chocorua,  and  all  our  earlier  acquaintances  rise 
or  nod  among  the  Sandwich  peaks.  Some  draw  their  cloud -draperies 
over  their  bare  shoulders,  some  sun  their  naked  and  hairy  breasts  in 
savage  luxury.  We  alight  like  a  bird  upon  the  glassy  bosom  of  Winne- 
piseogee  the  incomparable,  and,  like  the  bird,  again  rise,  refreshed,  for 
flights  still  more  remote.  We  sweep  over  the  Uncanoonucs  into  Massa- 
chusetts, steadying  the  eye  upon  far  Wachusett  as  we  pass  from  the  Mer- 
rimac  Valley.  Now  come  thronging  in  upon  us  the  mountains  of  the 
Connecticut  Valley.     We  rest  awhile  upon  the  transcendently  beautiful 


A!  OOSR  H I  l.LOCK.  273 

expanse  of  the  Ox-Bow,  and  its  playthings  of  villages,  strung  along  the 
glittering  necklace  of  the  river.  Across  this  valley,  lifting  our  eyes,  we 
wander  among  the  loftiest  peaks  of  the  Green  Mountains — those  colossal 
vcrd-anti(]ucs  —  exchanging  frozen  glances  across  the  placid  expanse  of 
Champlain  with  the  haughtiest  summits  of  the  Adirondacks.  We  grow 
tired  of  this.  One  last  look,  this  time  up  the  valley,  reveals  to  us  the 
wide  and  curious  gap  between  two  distant  mountains,  and  far  beyond 
Memphremagog,  where  these  mountains  rise,  we  scan  all  the  route  trav- 
elled by  Rogers,  the  perils  of  which  are  fresh  in  our  memor\'.  We  pass 
on  unchallenged  into  the  dominions  of  Victoria. 

Is  not  this  a  landscape  worth  coming  ten  miles  out  of  one's  way  to 
see }  And  vet  the  half  is  not  told.  I  have  merely  indicated  its  dimen- 
sions.  Now  let  the  reader,  drawing  an  imaginary  line  from  peak  to 
peak,  go  over  at  leisure  all  that  lies  between.  I  merely  prick  the  chart 
for  him.  Moosehillock,  not  quite  five  thousand  feet  high,  overlooks  all 
New  Hampshire,  pushes  investigation  into  Maine  and  Massachusetts,  is 
familiar  with  Vermont,  distant  with  New  York,  and  has  an  eye  upon 
Canada.     It  is  said  the  ocean  has  been  seen,  but  I  did  not  see  it. 

Circumstances  compelled  me  to  drive  the  old  horse,  who  has  made 
more  ascensions  of  the  mountain  than  any  living  thing,  back  to  Warren. 
No  other  was  to  be  had  for  love  or  money.  Had  there  been  time  I 
would  have  preferred  walking,  but  there  was  not.  This  horse  measured 
sixteen  hands.  His  thin  body  and  long  legs  resembled  a  horse  upon 
stilts.  He  looked  dejected,  but  resigned.  I  argued  that  he  would  be 
able  to  get  down  the  mountain  somehow ;  and,  once  out  of  the  woods, 
I  could  count  on  his  eagerness  to  get  home,  to  some  extent,  perhaps. 
I  was  not  deceived  in  either  expectation. 

The  road,  as  I  have  said,  is  for  most  of  the  way  a  rough,  steep,  and 
stony  one.  In  order  to  check  the  havoc  made  by  sudden  showers,  and 
to  hold  the  thin  soil  in  place,  hemlock -boughs  were  spread  over  it,  art- 
fully concealing  those  protruding  stones  which  the  scanty  soil  refused 
to  cover.  He  who  intrusted  himself  to  it  did  not  find  it  a  bed  of  roses. 
The  buck -board  was  the  longest,  clumsiest,  and  most  ill-favored  it  has 
ever  been  my  lot  to  see.  This  vehicle,  being  peculiar  to  the  mountains, 
demands,  at  least,  a  word.  It  is  a  very  primitive  and  ingenious  affair,  and 
cheaply  constructed.  Naturally,  therefore,  it  originated  where  the  farm- 
ers were  poor  and  the  roads  bad.  But  what  is  the  buck-board }  Every 
one  has  seen  the  spring-board  of  a  gymnasium  or  of  a  circus.     A  smooth 

22 


'lA 


THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAIXS. 


plank,  ten  feet  long,  resting  upon  trestles  placed  at  either  end,  assists  the 
acrobat  to  vault  high  in  the  air.  Each  time  he  falls  the  rebound  sends 
him  up  again.  This  is  the  principle  of  the  buck -board.  Remove  the 
trestles,  put  a  pair  of  wheels  in  the  place  of  each,  and  you  have  the  vehi- 
cle itself,  minus  shafts  or  pole,  according  as  one  or  two  horses  are  to 
draw  it.      Increased  weight   bends    the   board   or  the    spring  more    and 


THE  BUCK-HOARD   WAGON. 


more  until  it  is  in  danger  of  touching  the  ground.  The  passengers  sit 
in  the  hollow  of  this  spring,  the  natural  tendencv  of  which  is  to  shoot 
them  into  the  air. 

I  am  justified  in  speaking  thus  of  the  road  and  the  vehicle.  But 
who  shall  describe  the  horse.'  That  animal  was  possessed  of  a  devil, 
and,  like  the  swine  of  the  miracle,  ran  violently  all  the  way  clown  the 
mountain,  without  stopping  for  water  or  breath.  Fortunate  indeed  for 
me  was  it  that  the  sea  was  not  at  the  bottom.     In  three-quarters  of  an 


AIOOSEHI LLOCK.  275 

hour,  half  of  which  was  spent  in  the  air,  I  was  at  the  foot  of  tlic  moun- 
tain which'  had  required  two  tedious  hours  to  ascend,  flow  the  quad- 
ruped managed  to  avoid  falHng  headlong  fifty  times  over  the  concealed 
stones  I  have  no  idea.  How  I  contrived  to  alight,  when  a  wheel, 
coming  violently  against  one  of  these  stones,  put  the  spring-board  in 
play  —  how  I  contrived  to  alight,  I  remark,  during  this  game  of  battle- 
door  and  shuttlecock,  never  twice  in  the  same  place,  is  to  this  day  an 
enigma. 

The  houses  of  ancient  Rome  frequently  bore  the  inscription  for  the 
benefit  of  strangers,  "  Cave  cancmr  This  could  be  advantageously  re- 
placed here,  upon  the  first  turnpike -gate,  at  the  mountain's  foot,  with 
the  warning,  "  Beware  of  the  horse  !" 


276  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 


VIII. 

BETHLEHEM. 

Ros.   O  Jupiler  !  how  weary  are  my  spirits ! 

'J'otich.    I  care  not  for  my  spirits,  if  my  legs  were  not  weary. 

As  You  Like  It. 

HAVING  finished  with  the  western  approach  to  the  White  Moun- 
tains, I  was  now  at  liberty  to  retrace  my  route  up  the  Ammon- 
oosuc  Valley,  which  so  abounds  in  picturesque  details — farms,  hamlets, 
herds,  groups  of  pines,  maples,  torrents,  roads  feeling  their  way  up  the 
heights  —  to  that  anomaly  of  mountain  towns,  Bethlehem.  Thanks  to 
the  locomotive,  the  journey  is  short.  The  villages  of  Bath,  Lisbon,  Lit- 
tleton, are  successively  entered ;  the  same  flurry  gives  a  momentary  activ- 
ity to  each  station,  the  same  faces  crowd  the  platforms,  and  the  same 
curiosity  is  exhibited  by  the  passengers,  whose  excitement  receives  an 
increase  with  every  halt  of  the  laboring  train. 

Bethlehem  is  ranged  high  up,  along  the  side  of  a  mountain,  like  the 
best  china  in  a  cupboard.  The  crest  of  Mount  Agassiz^  rises  beliind  it. 
Beneath  the  village  the  ground  descends,  rather  abruptly,  to  the  Ammon- 
oosuc,  which  winds,  through  matted  woods,  its  way  out  of  the  mountains. 
There  are  none  of  those  eye-catching  gleams  of  water  which  so  agreea- 
bly diversify  these  interminable  miles  of  forest  and  mountain  land. 

It  is  only  by  ascending  the  slopes  of  Mount  Agassiz  that  we  can 
secure  a  stand-point  fairly  showing  the  commanding  position  of  Bethle- 
hem, or  where  its  immediate  surroundings  may  be  viewed  all  at  once.  It 
is  so  situated,  with  respect  to  the  curvature  of  this  mountain,  that  at  one 
end  of  the  village  they  do  not  know  what  is  going  on  at  the  other.     One 


'  In  the  valley  of  the  Aar,  at  the  head  of  the  Aar  glacier,  in  Switzerland,  is  a  peak  named 
for  Agassiz,  who  thus  has  two  enduring  monuments,  one  in  his  native,  the  other  in  his  adopted 

land.     The  eminent  Swiss  scientist  spent  much  time  among  the  White  Mountains. 


BETHLEHEM.  277 

end  revels  in  the  wide  panorama  of  the  west,  the  otlier  holds  the  unsur- 
passed view  of  the  great  peaks  to  the  east. 

Bethlehem  has  risen,  almost  by  magic,  at  the  point  where  the  old 
highway  up  the  Ammonoosuc  is  intersected  by  that  coming  from  Plym- 
outh, the  Pemigewasset  Valley,  and  the  Profile  House.  In  time  a  small 
roadside  hamlet  naturally  clustered  about  this  spot.  Dr.  Timothy 
Dwight,  the  pioneer  traveller  for  health  and  pleasure  among  these 
mountains,  passed  through  here  in  1S03.  Speaking  of  the  appearance 
of  Bethlehem,  he  says :  "  There  is  nothing  which  merits  notice,  except 
the  patience,  enterprise,  and  hardihood  of  the  settlers  which  have  in- 
duced them  to  stay  upon  so  forbidding  a  spot;  a  magnificent  prospect 
of  the  White  Mountains ;  and  a  splendid  collection  of  other  mountains 
in  their  neighborhood,  particularly  on  the  south-west."  It  was  then 
reached  by  only  one  wretched  road,  which  passed  the  Ammonoosuc  by 
a  dana:erous  ford.  The  few  scattered  habitations  were  mere  loo; -cabins, 
rough  and  rude.  The  few  planting -fields  were  still  covered  with  dead 
trees,  stark  and  forbidding,  which  the  settlers,  unable  to  fell  with  the 
axe,  killed  by  girdling,  as  the  Indians  did. 

From  this  historical  picture  of  Bethlehem  in  the  past,  we  turn  to  the 
Bethlehem  of  to-day.  It  is  turning  from  the  post-rider  to  the  locomotive. 
Not  a  single  feature  is  recognizable  except  the  splendid  prospect  of  the 
White  Mountains,  and  the  magnificent  collection  of  other  mountains, 
which  call  forth  the  same  admiration  to-day.  Fortunate  geographical 
position,  salubrity,  fine  scenery  —  these,  and  these  alone,  are  the  legiti- 
mate cause  of  what  may  be  termed  the  rise  and  progress  of  Bethlehem. 
All  that  the  original  settlers  seem  to  have  accomplished  is  to  clear  away 
the  forests  which  intercepted,  and  to  make  the  road  conducting  to  the 
view. 

It  is  the  position  of  Bethlehem  with  respect  to  the  recognized  points 
or  objects  of  interest  that  gives  to  it  a  certain  strategic  advantage.  For 
example,  it  is  admirably  situated  for  excursions  north,  south,  east,  or 
west.  It  is  ten  miles  to  the  Profile,  twelve  to  the  Fabyan,  seventeen  to 
the  Crawford,  fifteen  to  the  Waumbek,  and  eighteen  to  the  base  of 
Mount  Washington.  One  can  breakfast  at  Bethlehem,  dine  on  Mount 
Washington,  and  be  back  for  tea ;  and  he  can  repeat  the  experience  with 
respect  to  the  other  points  named  as  often  as  inclination  may  prompt. 
Moreover,  the  great  elevation  exempts  Bethlehem  from  the  malaria  and 
heat  of  the   valleys.      The   air  is   dry,  pure,  and   invigorating,  rendering 


& 


27S  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

it  the  paradise  of  those  invalids  who  suffer  from  periodical  attacks  of 
hay -fever.  Lastly,  it  is  new,  or  comparatively  new,  and  possesses  the 
charm  of  novelty — not  the  least  consideration  to  the  thousands  who  are 
in  pursuit  of  that  and  that  only. 

Bethlehem  Street  is  the  legitimate  successor  of  the  old  road.  This 
is  a  name  sui  generis  which  seems  hardly  appropriate  here,  although  it 
is  so  commonly  applied  to  the  principal  thoroughfares  of  our  inland  New 
England  villages.  It  has  a  spick-and-span  look,  as  if  sprung  up  like  a 
bed  of  mushrooms  in  a  night.  And  so,  in  fact,  it  has;  for  Bethlehem  as 
a  summer  resort  dates  only  a  few  years  back  its  sudden  rise  from  com- 
parative obscurity  into  the  full  blaze  of  popular  fame  and  favor.  The 
guide-book  of  fifteen  years  ago  speaks  of  the  one  small  but  comfortable 
hotel,  kept  by  the  Hon.  J.  G.  Sinclair.  In  fact,  very  little  account  was 
made  of  it  by  travellers,  except  to  remark  the  magnificent  view  of  the 
White  Mountains  on  the  east,  or  of  the  Franconia  Mountains  on  the 
south,  as  they  passed  over  the  then  prescribed  tour  from  North  Conway 
to  Plymouth,  or  vice  versa. 

But  this  newness,  which  you  at  first  resent,  besides  introducing  here 
and  there  some  few  attempts  at  architectural  adornment,  contrasts  very 
agreeably  with  the  ill -built,  rambling,  and  slip -shod  appearance  of  the 
older  village-centres.  They  are  invariably  most  picturesque  from  a  dis- 
tance. But  here  there  is  an  evident  effort  to  render  the  place  itself  at- 
tractive by  making  it  beautiful.  Good  taste  generally  prevails.  I  sus- 
pect, however,  that  the  era  of  good  taste,  beginning  with  the  incoming  of 
a  more  refined  and  intelligent  class  of  travellers,  communicated  its  spirit 
to  two  or  three  enterprising  and  sagacious  men,^  who  saw  in  what  Nature 
had  done  an  incentive  for  their  own  efforts.  We  walk  here  in  a  broad, 
well  -  built  thoroughfare,  skirted  on  both  sides  with  hotels,  boarding- 
houses,  and  modern  cottages,  in  which  three  or  four  thousand  sojourners 
annually  take  refuge.  All  this  has  grown  from  the  "one  small  hotel"  of 
a  dozen  years  ago.  Shade -trees  and  grass-plots  beautif}-  the  way -side. 
An  immense  horizon  is  visible  from  these  houses,  and  even  the  hottest 
summer  days  are  rendered  endurable  by  the  light  airs  produced  and  set 
in  motion  by  the  oppressive  heats  of  the  valley.  The  sultriest  season  is, 
therefore,  no   bar  to   out-of-door  exercise   for  persons  of  average  health. 


'  Such,  for  example,  as  the  Hon.  J.  G.  Sinclair,  Isaac  Cruft,  Esq.,  and  e.x-Govcrnor  Howard 
of  Rhode  Island. 


BETHLEHEM.  279 

rendering  walks,  rambles,  or  drives  subject  only  to  the  will  or  caprice  of 
the  pleasure-seeker.  But  in  the  evening  all  these  houses  are  emptied  of 
their  occupants.  The  whole  village  is  out-of-doors,  enjoying  the  coolness 
or  the  panorama  with  all  the  zest  unconstrained  gratification  always 
brings.  The  multitudes  of  well-dressed  promenaders  surprise  every  new- 
comer, who  immediately  thinks  of  Saratoga  or  Newport,  and  tlieir  social 
characteristics.  Bethlehem,  he  thinks,  must  be  the  ideal  of  those  who 
would  carry  city  or,  at  least,  suburban  life  among  the  mountains ;  who 
do  not  care  a  fig  for  solitude,  but  prefer  to  find  their  pleasures  still  con- 
nected with  their  home  life.  They  are  seeing  life  and  seeing  nature  at 
the  same  time. 

Sauntering  along  the  street  from  the  Sinclair  House,  a  strikingly 
large  and  beautiful  prospect  opens  as  we  come  to  the  Belleview.  Here 
the  road,  making  its  exit  from  the  village,  descends  to  the  Ammonoosuc. 
The  valley  broadens  and  deepens,  exposing  to  view  all  the  town  of  Lit- 
tleton, picturesquely  scattered  about  the  distant  hill -sides.  Its  white 
houses  resemble  a  bank  of  daisies.  The  hills  take  an  easy  attitude 
of  rest.  Six  hundred  feet  below  us  the  bottom  of  the  valley  exhibits 
its  rich  savannas,  interspersed  with  cottages  and  groves.  Above  its 
deep  hollow  the  Green  Mountains  glimmer  in  the  far  west.  "Ah!"  you 
say,  "  we  will  stop  here." 

Let  us  now  again,  leaving  the  Sinclair  House  behind,  ascend  the 
road  to  the  Profile.  It  is  not  so  much  travelled  as  it  was  before  the 
locomotive,  in  his  coat -of -mail,  sounded  his  loud  trumpet  at  the  gates 
of  Franconia.  A  mile  takes  us  to  the  brow  of  the  hill.  We  hardly 
know  which  way  to  look  first.  Two  noble  and  comprehensive  views 
present  themselves.  To  the  left  Mount  Agassiz  rears  his  commanding 
peak.  In  front  of  us,  across  a  valley,  is  the  great,  deeply -cloven  Fran- 
conia Notch.  Lafayette  is  superb  here.  Now  the  large,  compact  mass 
of  Moosehillock  looms  on  the  extreme  right,  together  with  all  those 
striking  objects  lately  studied  or  observed  from  the  village  of  Franconia, 
which  so  quietly  reposes  beneath  us.  But  this  landscape  properly  be- 
longs to  the  environs  of  Bethlehem,  and  never  is  it  so  incomparably 
grand  as  when  the  summits  are  fitfully  revealed,  battling  fiercely  with 
storm-clouds.  Every  phase  of  the  conflict  is  watched  with  eager  atten- 
tion. Seeing  all  this  passion  above,  it  calls  up  a  smile  to  look  down 
at  the  unbroken  and  unconscious  tranquillity  of  the  valley. 

Facing  now  in  the  direction   of  Bethlehem,,  the   eye   roves  over  the 


28o  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 


fe-^S. 


ifiia 


•Jt? 


/, 


i^yf 


.:^^f%^WIR 


^^ 


■\i1 


MOUNT   LAl-'AYETTE,  FROM    BETHLEHEM. 


broad  basin  of  the  Ammonoosuc  for  many 
miles   up  and  down.     The  hills   of  Littleton,  White- 
field,  Dalton,  Carroll,  and  Jefferson   bend   away  from  the  opposite 
side;   and  over  the  last   the   toothed   Percy   Peaks ^  rise   blue   and   clear 


'  The  twin  Percy  Peaks,  which  we  saw  in  the  north,  rise  in  the  south-east  corner  of  Strat- 
ford. Their  name  was  probably  derived  from  the  township  now  called  Stark,  and  formerly 
Percy.     The  township  was  named  by  Governor  Wentworth  in  honor  of  Hugh,  Earl  of  North- 


B  E  THL  E  HE  M.  2  8 1 

at  tlie  point  where  the  waters  of  the  Connecticut  and  the  Androscoggin, 
approaching  each  other,  conduct  tlie  Grand  Trunk  Railway  out  of  the 
mountains.  The  west  is  packed  with  the  high  summits  of  the  Green 
Mountain  chain.  The  great  White  Mountains  are  concealed,  as  yet,  by 
the  swell  of  the  mountain  down  whose  side  the  road  conducts  to  the 
village.  "  This,"  you  e.xclaim,  "this  is  the  spot  where  we  will  pitch  our 
tents !"  But  there  is  no  public-house  here,  and  we  are  reluctantly  forced 
to  descend.  In  proportion  as  we  go  clown,  this  seemingly  limitless  pano- 
rama suffers  a  partial  eclipse.  The  landscape  changes  from  the  high- 
wrought  epic  to  the  grand  pastoral,  if  such  a  distinction  may  be  applied 
to  differing  forms  of  mountain  scenery.  This  approach  is,  without 
doubt,  the  most  striking  introduction  to  Bethlehem.  It  is  curiously 
instructive,  too,  as  regards  the  relative  merits  of  successive  elevations, 
each  higher  than  the  other,  as  proper  view-points. 

A  third  ramble  is  altogether  indispensable  before  we  can  say  that  we 
know  Bethlehem  of  the  Hills.  The  direction  is  now  to  the  east,  by  the 
road  to  the  Crawford  House,  or  Fabyan's,  or  the  Twin.  We  continue 
along  the  high  plateau,  in  the  shade  of  sugar-maples  or  Lombardy  pop- 
lars, to  the  eastern  skirt  of  the  village,  the  houses  getting  more  and  more 
unfrequent,  until  we  come  upon  the  edge  of  the  slope  to  the  Ammon- 
oosuc,  where  the  road  to  W'hitetield,  Lancaster,  and  Jefferson,  leaving  the 
main  thoroughfare,  drops  quietly  down  into  Bethlehem  Hollow.  No  en- 
vious hill  now  obstructs  the  truly  "  magnificent  view."  Tlirough  the 
open  valley  the  lordly  mountains  again  inthrall  us  with  the  might  of  an 
overpowering  majesty. 

This  locality  has  taken  the  name  of  the  great  hotel  erected  here 
by  Isaac  Cruft,  whose  hand  is  visible  everywhere  in  Bethlehem.  The 
Maplewood,  as  it  is  called,  easily  maintains  at  its  own  end  the  prestige 
of  Bethlehem  for  rapid  growth.  When  I  first  visited  the  place,  in  1875, 
I  found  a  modest  roadside  hostelry  accommodating  sixty  guests ;  five 
years  later  a  mammotli  structure,  in  which  six  hundred  could  be  accom- 
modated, had  risen,  like  Aladdin's  palace,  on  the  same  spot.  Instead 
of  our  little  musical  entertainment,  our  mock -trial,  our  quiet  rubber  of 
w^hist,  of  an  evening,  there  were  readings,  lectures,  balls,  masquerades, 
theatricals,  niusicalcs,  for  every  day  of  the  week. 


umberland,  who  figured  in  the  earl)-  days  of  the  American  Revolution.     The  adjoining  town- 
ship of  Northumberland  is  also  commemorative  of  the  same  princely  house. 


28  2  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    .MOUNTAINS. 

But  Bethlehem  is  emphatically  the  place  of  sunsets.  In  this  respect 
no  other  mountain  resort  can  pretend  to  equal  it.  From  no  other 
village  are  so  many  mountains  visible  at  once ;  at  no  other  has  the 
landscape  such  length  and  breadth  for  giving  full  effect  to  these  truly 
wonderful  displays.  More  because  the  sublimity  of  the  scene  deserves 
a  permanent  chronicle  than  from  any  confidence  in  my  own  ability  to 
reproduce  it,  1  attempt  in  black  and  white  to  describe  one  of  unparal- 
leled intensity  of  color,  one  that  may  never  be  repeated,  certainly  never 
excelled,  while  the  sun,  the  heavens,  and  the  mountains  shall  last. 

A  cold  drizzle  having  set  in  on  the  day  of  my  arrival,  the  mountains 
were  invisible  when  I  rose  in  the  morning.  I  looked,  but  they  were  no 
longer  there.  I  was  much  vexed  at  the  prospect  of  being  storm-bound, 
or  of  making  under  compulsion  a  sojourn  I  had  beforehand  resolved  to 
make  at  my  own  good  will  and  pleasure.  So  strongly  is  the  spirit  of 
resistance  developed  in  us.  After  a  critical  investigation  of  the  weather, 
it  crossed  my  mind  like  an  intuition  that  something  extraordinary  was 
preparing  behind  the  enormous  masses  of  clouds  clinging  like  wet  dra- 
peries to  the  skirts  of  the  mountains,  forming  an  impenetrable  curtain, 
now  and  then  slowly  lifted  by  the  fresh  north  wind,  now  suddenly  dis- 
tended or  collapsing  like  huge  sails,  but  noiselessly  and  mysteriously  as 
the  ghostly  canvas  of  the  Flying  Diitchman. 

Toward  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  the  wind  ha\ing  freshened,  the 
lower  clouds  broke  apart  here  and  there  —  just  enough  to  reveal  to  us 
that  ever-new  picture  of  the  White  Mountains,  beautifully  robed  in  fresh 
snow,  above  the  darker  line  of  forest ;  but  so  thoroughly  were  the  high 
summits  blended  with  the  dull  silver-gray  of  upper  sky  that  the  true  line 
of  separation  defied  the  keenest  scrutiny  to  detect  it.  This  produced  a 
curious  optical  illusion.  Extended  sumptuously  along  the  crest-line, 
rivalling  the  snow  itself,  a  bank  of  white  clouds  rendered  the  deception 
perfect,  since  just  above  them  began  that  heavy  and  dull  expanse  which 
overspread  and  darkened  the  whole  heavens,  thus  imperfectly  delineat- 
ing a  second  line  of  summits  mounting  to  a  prodigious  height.  They 
seemed  miles  upon  miles  high. 

Up  stretched  this  gigantic  and  shadowy  phantasm  of  towers,  domes, 
and  peaks,  inimitably,  as  if  mountains  and  heavens  were  indeed  come  to- 
gether in  eternal  alliance.  At  the  same  time  the  finger  dipped  in  water 
could  trace  a  more  conclusive  outline  on  glass  than  the  eye  could  find 
here.     The  summits,  a  little  luminous,  emitted  a  cold,  spectral  glare.     It 


BETHLEHEM.  ,  283 

gave  you  a  chill  to  look  at  them.  No  sky,  no  earth,  no  deep  gorges,  no 
stark  precipices — no  anything  except  that  dead  wall,  so  sepulchral  in  its 
gray  gloom  that  equally  mind  and  imagination  failed  to  find  one  famil- 
iar outline  or  contour.  The  true  peaks  seemed  clouds,  and  the  clouds 
peaks.     But  this  phantasm  was  only  the  prologue. 

At  the  hour  of  sunset  all  the  lower  clouds  had  disappeared.  The 
ujjper  heavens  now  wore  that  deep  grape-purple  im]5ervious  to  light  or 
warmth,  and  producing  the  effect  of  a  vast  dome  hung  with  black.  The 
storm  replaced  the  azure  tint  of  the  sky  with  the  most  sombre  color  in 
its  laboratory.  The  light  visibly  waned.  The  icy  peaks  still  reflected  a 
boreal  glitter.  But  in  the  west  these  funereal  draperies  fell  a  little  short 
of  touchin"-  the  eda;e  of  the  horizon — a  bare  hand's-breadth — leavintr  a 
crevice  filled  with  golden  light,  pure  and  limpid  as  water,  clear  and  vivid 
as  winnowed  sunshine.  The  sun's  eye  would  soon  be  applied  to  this 
peep-hole.  A  feverish  impatience  seized  us.  We  could  see  the  people 
at  their  doors  and  in  the  street  standing  silent  and  expectant,  with  their 
faces  turned  to  the  heavens.  From  a  station  near  Cruft's  Ledge  we 
watched  intently  for  the  moment  when  this  splendid  light,  concentrated 
in  one  level  sheet,  should  fall  upon  the  great  mountains. 

In  a  few  seconds  a  yellow  spot  of  piercing  brilliancy  appeared  in 
this  narrow  band  of  light.  One  look  at  it  was  blinding;  a  second 
would  have  paralyzed  the  optic  nerve.  Mechanically  we  put  up  our 
hands  to  shut  it  out.  Imairine  a  stream  of  molten  iron — hissins:-hot  and 
throwing  off  fiery  spray  —  gushing  from  the  side  of  a  furnace!  Even 
that  can  give  but  a  feeble  idea  of  the  unspeakable  intensity  of  this 
last  sun-ray.  It  blazed.  It  flooded  us  with  a  suffocating  effulgence. 
Suppose  now  this  cataract  of  liquid  flame  suddenly  illuminating  the 
pitchy  darkness  of  a  cavern  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth.  The  effect  was 
electrifying.  Confined  between  the  upper  and  nether  expanse  —  dull 
earth  and  brooding  sky — rendered  tenfold  more  dazzling  by  the  black- 
ness above,  beneath,  the  sun  poured  upon  the  great  mountains  one  mag- 
nificent torrent  of  radiance.  In  an  instant  the  broad  land  was  deluged 
with  the  supreme  glories  of  that  morning  when  the  awful  voice  of  God 
uttered  the  sublime  command, 

"  Let  there  be  lij^ht,  and  there  was  Hght." 

An  electric  shock  awoke  the  torpid  earth,  transfigured  the  mountains. 
On    swept    the    mighty  wave,  shedding  light,  and   warmth,  and   splendor 


2S4  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

where  a  moment  before  all  was  dark,  cold,  and  spiritless.  Like  Ajax  be- 
fore Troy,  the  giant  hills  braced  on  their  dazzling  armor.  Like  Achilles's 
shield,  they  threw  back  the  brightness  of  the  sun.  Every  tree  stood 
sharply  out.  Every  cavern  disclosed  its  inmost  secrets.  Twigs  glittered 
diamonds,  leaves  emitted  golden  rays.     All  was  ravishingly  beautiful. 

This  superb  exhibition  continued  while  one  might  count  a  hundred. 
Then  all  the  lower  mountains  took  on  that  ineffable  purple  that  bafHes 
description.  Starr  King,  Cherry  Mountain,  were  resplendent.  As  if  the 
livid  and  thick-clustered  clouds  above  had  been  trodden  by  invisible  feet, 
these  peaks  seemed  drenched  with  the  juice  of  the  wine-press.  The  high 
summits,  buried  in  snow  and  cloud,  were  yet  coldly  impassive,  but 
presently,  little  by  little,  the  light  crept  up  and  up.  Now  it  seized  the 
topmost  pinnacles.  Heavens,  what  a  sight !  Ineffable  glory  seemed 
quenched  in  the  sublime  terrors  of  that  moment.  On  our  right  the 
Twin  and  Franconia  mountains  glowed,  from  base  to  summit,  like  coals 
of  fire.  The  lower  forests  were  wrapped  in  flame.  Then  all  the  snowy 
line  of  peaks,  from  Adams  to  Clinton,  turned  blood-red.  No  pale  rose 
or  carnation  tints,  as  in  those  enrapturing  summer  sunsets  so  often  wit- 
nessed here.  The  stupendous  and  flaming  mountains  of  hell  seemed 
risen  before  us,  clothed  with  immortal  terrors.  We  stood  rooted  to  the 
spot,  like  men  who  saw  the  judgment-day  dawning,  the  solid  earth  con- 
suming, before  their  doubting  eyes.  Everlasting,  unquenchable  fires 
seemed  encompassing  us  about.  Nothing  more  weird,  more  unearthly, 
or  more  infernal  was  ever  seen.  Even  the  country -people,  stolid  and 
indifferent  as  they  usually  are,  regarded  it  with  mingled  stupefaction 
and  dismay. 

The  drama  approached  its  climax.  Before  we  were  aware,  the  valley 
grew  dark.  But  still,  the  granite  peaks  of  Lafayette,  and  of  that  admira- 
ble pyramid,  Mount  Garfield,  which  even  the  greater  mountain  cannot  re- 
duce to  impotence,  glowed  like  iron  drawn  from  the  fire.  Their  incandes- 
cent points,  thrust  upward  into  the  black  gulf  of  the  heavens,  towered 
above  the  blacker  gulfs  below  unspeakably.  By  degrees  the  scorching 
heat  cooled.  The  great  Franconia  spires  successively  paled.  But  long 
after  they  seemed  reduced  to  ashes,  the  red  flame  still  lingered  upon  the 
snows  of  Mount  Washington.  At  last  that,  too,  faded  out.  Life  was 
extinct.  The  great  summit  took  on  a  wan  and  livid  hue.  Night  kindly 
spread  her  mantle  over  the  lifeless  form  of  the  mountain,  which  still 
disclosed  its  larger  outlines  rigid,  majestic,  even  in  death. 


BETHLEHEM.  285 

Twilight  succeeded — twilight  steeped  in  silence  and  coolness,  in  the 
thousand  odors  exhaled  by  the  teeming  earth.  One  by  one  the  birds 
hushed  their  noisy  twitter.  Overcome  by  their  own  perfumes,  flowers 
shut  their  dewy  petals  and  drooped  their  tender  little  heads.  The  river 
seemed  a  drowsy  voice  rising  from  the  depths  of  the  forest,  complaining 
tliat  it  alone  should  toil  on  while  all  else  reposed.  With  night  comes 
the  feeling  of  immensity.  With  sleep  the  conviction  that  we  are  nothing, 
and  that  the  order  of  nature  disturbs  itself  in  nothing  for  us.  If  we 
awake,  well ;  if  not,  well  again.  What  if  we  should  never  wake .''  One 
such  splendid  pageant  as  I  have  attempted  to  describe  instinctively 
quenches  human  pride.  It  is  true,  a  sunset  is  in  itself  nothing,  but  it 
compels  you  to  admit  that  the  world  moves  for  itself,  not  for  you.  Be- 
lieve it  not  a  gorgeous  display  in  which  you,  the  critical  spectator,  as- 
sist, but  the  signal  that  the  day  ends  and  the  night  cometh.  A  spec- 
tacle that  can  arouse  the  emotions  of  joy,  fear,  hope,  suspense — nothing .'' 
Perhaps.     God  knows. 

There  are  very  pleasant  walks,  affording  fine  views  of  all  the  highest 
mountains,  around  the  eastern  slope  or  to  the  summit  of  the  mountain 
rising  at  the  back  of  the  hotel.  ■  The  bare  but  grassy  crest  of  this  moun- 
tain, one  of  my  favorite  haunts,  enabled  me  to  reconnoitre  my  route  in 
advance  up  the  valley,  and  to  look  over  into  the  yet  unvisited  region  of 
Jefferson,  or  back  again,  at  the  environs  of  Franconia.  The  glory  that 
pours  down  upon  these  hills,  the  vales  they  infold,  the  wild  streams,  the 
craggy  mountain  spurs,  the  soft,  velvety  clearings  that  turn  their  dimpled 
cheeks  to  be  kissed  by  the  sunshine,  may  all  be  seen  and  fully  enjoyed 
from  this  spot. 

The  heights  behind  us  are  well -wooded  on  the  summits,  but  below 
this  belt  of  woodland  extends  a  broad  band  of  sunny  clearings  checkered 
with  fields  of  waving  grain.  These  fields  are  among  the  highest  culti- 
vated lands  in  New  England.  Long  tillage  was  necessary  to  reduce  this 
refractory  soil  to  subjection.  Farther  down,  toward  the  railway-station, 
the  pastures  are  so  encumbered  with  stones  that  a  sheep  would  turn 
from  them  in  dismay.  To  mow  among  these  stones  a  man  would  have 
to  so  down  on  his  knees. 

There  is  a  beautiful  orchard  of  sugar- maples  down  the  road  to  the 
Hollow ;  but  it  always  makes  me  sad  to  see  these  trees  standing  with 
their  naked  sides  pierced  and  bleeding  from  gaping  wounds. 

At  the  corner  of  this  road  mv  attention  was  arrested  bv  a  sign-board 


286  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

planted  in  front  of  an  unpainted  cottage,  behind  which  rose  a  chimp  of 
magnificent  birches.  I  walked  over  to  see  what  it  could  mean.  The 
sign-board  bore  the  name  "Sir  Isaac  Newton  Gay,"  in  large  black  let- 
ters. Here  was  a  spur  to  curiosity !  A  knight,  or  at  least  a  baronet, 
living  in  humble  seclusion,  yet  parading  his  quality  thus  in  the  face  of 
the  world  !  Going  to  the  gate,  my  perplexity  increased  upon  seeing  the 
grass-plot  in  front  of  the  dwelling  literally  covered  with  broken  glass, 
lamp-chimneys,  bits  of  colored  china,  bottles  of  every  imaginable  shape 
and  size  stuck  upright  upon  sticks,  interspersed  with  lumps  of  white 
quartz.  Some  cabalistic  meaning,  doubtless,  attached  to  the  display. 
This  brilliant  rubbish  sparkled  in  the  sun,  filling  the  enclosure  with  the 
cheap  glitter  of  a  pawnbroker's  shop -window.  The  thing  so  far  an- 
nounced a  little  eccentricity,  at  least,  so  I  made  bold  to  push  my  inves- 
tigation still  farther,  and  was  rewarded  by  finding,  piled  against  the 
trunk  of  a  tree,  at  the  back  of  the  house,  a  heap  of  skulls  of  animals  as 
high  as  my  head.  The  recluse's  intent  was  now  plain.  Here  was  a 
lesson  that  he  who  ran  might  read.  The  rubbish  in  the  front  yard  illus- 
trated the  pomp,  glitter,  and  emptiness  of  life ;  the  monument  of  skulls 
its  true  estate,  divested  of  all  false  show  or  pretence.  Without  doubt ' 
this  was  a  philosopher  worthy  of  his  name. 

I  was  admitted  by  a  singular- looking  being,  with  dry,  straight,  lank 
hair,  weak  features,  watery  eyes,  and  a  shuftfing  gait.  Some  accident 
having  partially  closed  one  eye,  gave  him  a  look  of  preternatural  wis- 
dom. He  was  ready  to  give  an  opinion  on  any  subject  under  the  sun, 
no  matter  how  difficult  or  abstruse,  as  soon  as  broached,  and  stroked  his 
scanty  beard  while  doing  so  with  evident  self-complacency.  I  had  a 
moment  to  see  that  the  walls  were  papered  with  old  handbills  of  county 
fairs,  travelling  shows,  and  the  like,  the  floor  covered  with  patches  of 
carpet  as  various  as  Joseph's  coat,  when  my  man  began  a  formula  simi- 
lar to  what  the  Bearded  Lady  drawls  out  or  the  Tattooed  Man  recites 
through  his  nose  to  gaping  rustics  at  a  country  muster,  at  ten  cents  a 
head.  He  told  where  he  was  born,  how  old  he  was,  and  how  long  he 
had  lived  in  Bethlehem.  At  the  proper  moment  I  put  my  hand  in  my 
pocket  and  took  out  a  dime,  which  he  thankfully  accepted,  and  dropped 
inside  a  broken  coffee-pot. 

"Sir,"  I  observed,  "  seeing  you  are  American -born,  I  infer  your  title 
must  have  been  conferred  by  some  foreign  potentate  V 

"  No  -,  that  is  my  name." 


BETHLEJIEM.  287 

"  But,"  I  pursued,  "  has  it  not  an  unrepublican  sound  in  a  country 
where  titles  are  regarded  with  distrust,  not  to  say  aversion  ?" 

"  I  tell  you  it  is  my  name,"  with  some  heat ;  "  I  was  named  for  the 
great  Sir  Isaac  Newton." 

"  Your  pardon.  Sir  Isaac.  May  I  ask  if  you  inherit  the  genius  of 
your  distinguished  namesake .''" 

"  Well,  yes,  to  some  extent  I  do ;  I  philoserphize  a  good  deal.  I 
read  a  good  many  books  folks  leaves  here,  besides  what  newspapers  I 
can  pick  up ;  but  you  see  it  costs  a  lifetime  to  get  knowledge." 

Jaques,  the  misanthrope,  wandering  in  the  Forest  of  Arden,  was  not 
more  astonished  at  Touchstone's  philosophy  than  I  at  this  answer. 
"Very  true,"  I  assented.     "What  is  your  philosophy  of  life?" 

He  tapped  his  forehead  with  his  forefinger,  but  it  was  only  too  evi- 
dent the  apartment  was  untenanted.  He  remained  a  moment  or  two  as 
if  in  deep  thought,  and  then  began, 

"Well,  I'm  eighty-six  years  of  age,  come  next  July." 

My  flesh  began  to  creep :  he  was  beginning,  for  the  third  time,  his 
eternal  formula.     The  hermit,  fumbling  a  red  handkerchief,  resumed, 

"  I  can  say  I've  never  wanted  for  necessaries,  and  don't  propose  to 
give  myself  any  trouble  about  it."  And  then  he  expatiated  on  the  folly 
of  fretfulness. 

The  Hermit  of  Bethlehem,  as  he  is  called,  but  who  opens  his  door 
wide  for  the  world  to  enter,  is-  a  very  ordinary  sort  of  hermit  indeed. 
Still,  his  very  feebleness  of  intellect,  his  vanity  even,  should  be  a  shield 
instead  of  a  target  for  those  who,  like  myself,  are  lured  by  the  unmean- 
ing trumpery  at  his  door,  which  has  no  other  significance  in  the  world 
than  a  childish  jjassion  for  objects  that  glitter  in  the  sun. 

The  constituents  of  hotel  life  do  not  belong  to  any  locality :  they 
are  universal.  It  is  curious  to  see  here  people  who  have  spent  half 
their  lives  in  India,  or  China,  or  Australia  moving  about  among  the 
untravelled  with  the  well-bred  ease  and  adaptation  to  circumstances 
that  newly -fledged  tourists  can  neither  understand  nor  imitate.  It  is 
very  droll,  too,  that  people  who  have  lived  ten  years  in  the  same  street, 
at  home,  without  knowing  each  other,  meet  here  for  the  first  time. 

I  beg  to  introduce  another  acquaintance  picked  up  by  the  road- 
side while  walking  from  the  Twin  Mountain  House  to  Bethlehem. 
Had  I  been  driving,  the  incident  would  still  have  waited  for  a  narrator. 

Climbing  the  hill-side  at  a  snail's  pace  was  a  peddler's  cart,  drawn  by 


2  88  THE     HEART    OE    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

a  scrubby  little  white  horse,  and  bearing  a  new  broom  for  an  ensign, 
which  seemed  to  symbolize  that  this  petty  trader  meant  to  sweep  the 
road  clean  of  its  loose  cash.  The  sides  of  the  cart  were  gayly  decorated 
with  pans,  basins,  dippers  by  the  dozen,  and  bristled  with  knickknacks 
for  barter  or  ready  money,  from  a  gridiron  to  a  door- mat.  The  move- 
ment of  the  vehicle  over  the  stony  road  kept  up  a  lively  clatter,  which 
announced  its  coming  from  afar.  There  being,  for  the  moment,  no  house 
in  sight,  the  proprietor  was  engaged  in  picking  raspberries  by  the  road- 
side. 

The  peddler  —  well,  he  was  little,  and  stubby  too,  like  his  horse, 
for  whom  he  had  dismounted  to  lighten  the  pull  up-hill.  The  animal 
seemed  to  know  his  business,  for  he  stopped  short  as  often  as  he  came 
to  a  water-bar,  blew  a  cloud  from  his  nostrils,  champed  his  bit,  and  dis- 
tended his  sides  so  alarmingly  with  a  long,  deep  respiration,  that  the 
patched- up  harness  seemed  in  clanger  of  bursting.  He  then  glanced 
over  his  shoulder  toward  his  master,  shook  his  head  deprecatingly,  and, 
with  a  deep  sigh,  moved  on. 

The  little  merchant  of  small  wares  and  great  had  on  a  rusty  felt 
hat,  rakishly  set  on  one  side  of  his  bullet  head,  and  a  faded  olive-green 
coat,  rather  short  in  the  skirts,  to  conceal  two  patches  in  his  trousers. 
The  latter  were  tucked  into  a  pair  of  dusty  boots  very  much  turned  up 
at  the  toes.  His  face  was  a  good  deal  sunburnt,  and  his  hair,  eye- 
brows, and  mustache  were  the  color  of  the  road  —  sandy.  Except  a 
pair  of  scissors,  the  points  of  which  protruded  from  his  left-hand  vest- 
pocket,  I  perceived  no  weapon  offensive  or  defensive  about  him.  He 
was  a  very  innocent-looking  peddler  indeed. 

As  I  was  passing  him  he  held  out  a  handful  of  ripe  fruit.  The  hand 
was  disfigured  with  an  ugly  cicatrice :  it  was  rather  dirt)'.  He  accom- 
panied the  offer  with  an  invitation  to  "  hop  on ""  his  cart  and  ride.  This 
double  civility  emanated  from  a  gentleman  and  a  peddler. 

The  walk  from  Crawford's  to  Bethlehem  is  rather  fatiguing;  but  I 
said,  as  in  duty  bound,  "No"  (I  said  it  because  the  thought  of  riding 
through  Bethlehem  Street  on  the  top  of  a  peddler's  cart  appeared  ridicu- 
lous in  my  eyes — with  shame  I  confess  it),  "  thank  you ;  your  horse  al- 
ready has   all   he    can   pull,  and   I   have  only  a  mile   or   two  farther  to 


go. 


The  peddler  then  fell  into  step  with  me,  taking  a  long,  even  stride 


that  brought  back  old  recollections.     I  said, 


BETHLEHEM.  289 

"  You  have  been  a  soldier." 

"  How  know  you  dat?" 

"By  your  gait — you  do  not  walk,  you  march:  by  that  sabre -cut  on 
your  right  hand." 

'■  Ha!  you  goot  eyes  haf ;  but  it  a  payonet  vas." 

Believing  I  saw  a  veteran  of  our  great  ci\il  war,  I  asked,  with  un- 
disguised interest, 

"  Where  did  you  serve .'     Where  were  you  wounded  ?" 

"Von  year  und  half  in  war  mit  Danemark,  von  year  und  half  mit 
Oustria,  und  two  mit  Vrance." 

I  looked  at  him  again.  What !  That  undersized,  insignificant  ap- 
pearing little  chap,  whom  I  could  easily  have  pitched  into  the  ditch, 
he  a  soldier  of  Sadowa,  of  Metz,  of  Paris.     Bah  ! 

"So,  the  wars  over,  you  emigrated  to  America.''" 

"  Right  avay.  Ven  I  get  home  from  Baris  I  tell  Linda,  my  vife, 
'  Look  here,  Linda :  I  been  soldier  six  year.  Now  I  plenty  fighting 
got.  Deres  two  hunder  thaler  in  the  knapsack.  Shut  your  mouth 
tight,  open  your  eye  close,  and  we  get  out  of  dis  double-quig.'  She 
say  'Where  I  go?'  und  I  tell  her  the  6^-nited  States,  by  hell,  befor  anoder 
var  come.  She  begin  to  cry,  I  begin  to  schwcar,  und  we  settle  it  right 
avay." 

I  asked  if  he  minded  telling  how  he  canie  by  the  wound  in  his 
hand.     This  is  what  he  told  me  in  his  broken  English  : 

When  Marshal  Bazaine  made  his  last  desperate  effort  to  shake  off 
the  deadly  gripe  the  Prussians  had  fastened  upon  Metz,  a  battalion  of 
tirailleurs  suddenly  surrounded  an  advanced  post  established  by  the 
Germans  in  the  suburbs.  The  morning  was  foggy,  and  the  surprise  com- 
plete. The  picket  had  hardly  the  time  to  run  to  their  arms  before  they 
were  driven  back  pell-mell  on  the  reserve,  amid  a  shower  of  balls.  The 
reserve  took  refuge  in  a  stone  building  surrounded  by  a  thick  hedge, 
maintaining  an  irregular  fire  from  the  windows.  One  of  the  last  to 
cross  the  court-yard,  with  the  French  at  his  heels,  was  our  German.  Be- 
fore he  could  gain  the  friendly  shelter  of  the  house  he  stumbled  and  fell 
headlong,  his  gun  fiying  through  the  air  as  he  came  to  the  ground,  so 
that  he  was  not  only  prostrate  but  disarmed. 

Half-stunned,  he  scrambled  to  his  knees  just  as  his  nearest  pursuer 
made  a  savage  lunge  with  his  sabre-bayonet.  The  Prussian  instinctively 
grasped    it.      While    trying  'thus   to    parry   the    deadly    thrust,  the    keen 

23 


290  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

weapon  pierced  his  hand,  and  he  was  a  second  time  borne  to  the  earth, 
or,  rather,  pinned  to  it  by  his  adversary's  bayonet. 

'' Rcndcz-vous  Alleinand,  cochou!"  screamed  the  Frenchman,  bestrid- 
ing the  little  Prussian  with  a  look  of  mortal  hatred. 

"  Je  ne  fous  cotnbrcnds^'  replied  the  wounded  man,  drawing  a  re- 
volver with  his  free  hand  and  shooting  his  enemy  dead.  "  I  couldn't 
helb  it,  I  vas  so  mad,"  finished  the  ex-soldier,  running  to  serve  two  of 
his  customers,  who  stood  waiting  for  him  at  a  gate  by  the  roadside.  I 
left  him  exhibiting  ribbons,  edgings,  confectionery — heaven  knows  what ! 
— with  all  the  volubility  of  an  experienced  shopman. 


JEFFERSON,   AND     VALLEY    OF    ISRAEVS    RIVER.     291 


IX. 

JEFFERSON,   AND     THE    VALLEY    OF    ISRAEL'S    RIVER. 

Through  the  valley  runs  a  river,  bright  and  rocky,  cool  and  swift, 
Where  the  wave  with  many  a  quiver  plays  around  the  pine-tree's  drift. 

Gooii  IVoriis. 

IT  remains  to  introduce  the  reader  into  the  valley  watered  by  Israel's 
River,  and  for  this  purpose  we  take  the  rail  from  Bethlehem  to 
Whitefield,  and  from  Whitefield  to  Jefferson. 

Like  Bethlehem,  Jefferson  lies  reposing  in  mid-ascent  of  a  mountain. 
Here  the  resemblance  ends.  The  mountain  above  it  is  higher,  the  val- 
ley beneath  more  open,  permitting  an  unimpeded  view  up  and  down. 
The  hill-side  upon  which  the  clump  of  hotels  is  situated  makes  no  steep 
plunge  into  the  valley,  but  inclines  gently  down  to  the  banks  of  the 
river.  Instead  of  crowding  upon  and  jostling  each  other,  the  mountains 
forming  ojjposite  sides  of  this  valley  remain  tranquilly  in  the  alignment 
they  were  commanded  not  to  overstep.  The  confusion  there  is  reduced 
to  admirable  order  here ;  the  smooth  slopes,  the  clean  lines,  the  ample 
views,  the  roominess,  so  to  speak,  of  the  landscape,  indicate  that  every- 
thing has  been  done  without  haste,  with  precision,  and  without  deviation 
from  the  original  plan,  which  contemplated  a  paradise  upon  earth. 

Issuing  from  the  wasted  sides  of  Mount  Jefferson  and  Mount  Adams, 
Israel's  River  runs  a  short  north-westerly  course  of  fifteen  miles  into  the 
Connecticut  at  Lancaster.  This  beautiful  stream  received  its  name  from 
Israel  Glines,  a  hunter,  who  frequented  these  regions  long  before  the 
settlement  of  the  country.  The  road  from  Lancaster  to  Gorham  follows 
the  northern  highlands  of  its  valley  to  its  head,  then  crossing  the  divid- 
ing ridge  which  separates  its  waters  from  those  of  Moose  River,  de- 
scends this  stream  to  the  Androsco2:s:in  at  Gorham. 

On  the  north  side  Starr  King  Mountain  rises  2400  feet  above  the 
valley  and  3800  feet  above  the  sea.     On  the  south  side  Cherry  Moun- 


2  92  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

tain  lifts  itself  3670  feet  higher  than  the  tide-level.  These  two  moun- 
tains form  the  broad  basin  through  which  Israel's  River  flows  for  more 
than  half  its  course.  The  village  of  Jefferson  Hill  lies  on  the  southern 
slope  of  Starr  King,  and,  of  course,  on  the  north  side  of  the  valley. 
Cherry  Mountain,  the  most  prominent  object  in  the  foreground,  is  itself 
a  fine  mountain  study.  It  looks  down  through  the  great  Notch,  greet- 
ing Chocorua.  It  is  conspicuous  from  any  elevated  point  north  of  the 
Franconia  group  —  from  Fabyan's,  Bethlehem,  Whitefield,  Lancaster,  etc. 


Tw^r^sz-fr- 


i=*3f«f»' 


THE    NOUTIIERN    I'EAKb    FROM    JEHERbO.N. 


Owl's  Head  is  a  conspicuous  protuberance  of  this  mountain.  Over  the 
right  shoulder  of  Cherry  Mountain  stand  the  great  Franconia  Peaks,  and 
to  the  right  of  these,  its  buildings  visible,  is  Bethlehem.  Now  look  up 
the  valley. 

We  see  that  we  have  taken  one  step  nearer  the  northern  wing  of  the 
great  central  edifice  whose  snowy  dome  dominates  New  England.  We 
are  advancing  as  if  to  turn  this  magnificent  battle -line  of  Titans,  on 
whose  right    Madison   stands  in    an   attitude    to    repel   assault.      Adams 


JEFFERSOX,   AXD     VALLEY    OF    LSRAEL'S    RLVER.     293 

next  erects  his  sharp  lance,  Jefferson  his  shining  crescent,  Washington 
his  broad  buckler,  and  Monroe  his  twin  crags  against  the  sky.  Jeffer- 
son, as  the  nearest,  stands  boldly  forward,  showing  its  tremendous  ra- 
vines, and  long,  supporting  ridges,  with  great  distinctness.  Washington 
loses  something  of  its  grandeur  here ;  at  least  it  is  not  the  most  striking 
object ;  that  must  be  sought  for  among  the  sable-sided  giants  standing  at 
his  rieht  hand.  The  southern  ueaks,  being  foreshortened,  show  only  an 
irregular  and  flattened  outline  which  we  do  not  look  at  a  second  time. 
From  Madison  to  Lafayette,  our  two  rallying  points,  the  distance  can 
hardly  be  less  than  forty  miles  as  the  eye  travels :  the  entire  circuit  it 
is  able  to  trace  cannot  fall  short  of  seventy  or  eighty  miles.  As  at 
Bethlehem,  the  view  out  of  the  valley  is  chiefly  remarkable  for  its  con- 
trast with  every  other  feature. 

I  took  a  peculiar  satisfaction  in  these  views,  they  were  so  ample,  so 
extensive,  so  impressive.  Here  you  really  feel  as  if  the  whole  noble 
company  of  mountains  were  marshalled  solely  for  your  delighted  inspec- 
tion. At  no  other  point  is  there  such  unmeasured  gratification  in  see- 
ing, because  the  eye  roves  without  hinderance  over  the  grandest  sum- 
mits; placed  like  the  Capitol  at  the  head  of  its  magnificent  avenue.  It 
alights  first  on  one  pinnacle,  then  flits  to  another.  It  interrogates  these 
immortal  structures  with  a  calm  scrutiny.  It  dives  into  the  cool  ravines ; 
it  seeks  to  penetrate,  like  the  birds,  the  profound  silence  of  the  forests. 
It  toils  slowly  up  the  broken  crags,  or  loiters  by  the  cascades,  hanging 
like  athletes  from  dizzy  brinks.  It  shrinks,  it  admires,  it  questions ;  it 
is  grave,  gay,  or  thoughtful  by  turns.  I  do  not  believe  the  man  lives 
who,  looking  up  to  those  mountains  as  in  the  face  of  the  Deit\-,  can  de- 
liberately utter  a  falsehood :  the  lie  would  choke  him. 

Furthermore,  you  get  the  best  idea  of  height  here,  because  the  long 
amphitheatre  of  mountains  is  seen  steadily  growing  in  stature  toward  the 
great  central  group ;  and  comparison  is,  by  all  odds,  the  best  of  teachers 
for  the  eye. 

If  for  no  other  reason  than  the  respect  due  to  age,  Jefferson  deserves 
a  moment  to  itself.  It  was  granted,  October  3d,  1765,  to  John  Goffe, 
under  the  name  of  Dartmouth.  The  road  divero;in2f  here,  and  crossincj 
Cherry  Mountain  to  F"abyan's,  is  the  oldest,  as  it  long  was  the  only  high- 
way through  the  White  Mountains.  In  those  early  times  the  travelled 
way  was  by  the  Connecticut  River  and  Lancaster  through  this  valley  to 
the  White   Mountain    Notch.     The   divergent   road   is   the   old   turnpike 


2  94  ^-^^     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

between  Vermont  and  Portland.  Graduall}',  as  settlements  were  pushed 
farther  and  farther  up  the  Ammonoosuc,  a  way  was  made  by  Bath,  Lis- 
bon, Littleton,  and  Dalton,  to  Lancaster;  but  to  pass  beyond  it  was  still 
necessary  to  follow  the  old  route ;  nor  was  it  until  after  the  settlement  of 
Bethlehem  cleared  the  way  that  an  execrable  horse-path  was  made  over 
the  present  great  highway  up  the  Ammonoosuc.  In  1803  President 
Dwight  passed  over  this  new  road  on  his  second  excursion  to  the  great 
Notch.  Few  travellers  would  now  be  willing  to  undergo  what  he  did  to 
see  the  mountains.  There  were  then  only  three  or  four  houses  in  the 
sixteen  miles  between  Bethlehem  and  the  Notch. 

One  of  the  first  settlers  of  Jefferson  was  Colonel  Joseph  Whipple, 
mentioned  in  the  narrative  of  Nancy,  the  ill-starred  mountain-maid,  who 
died  while  following  her  faithless  lover  in  his  flight  from  Jefferson  out 
of  the  mountains.  Colonel  Whipple  lived  on  the  road  to  Cherry  Moun- 
tain, near  the  mill.  In  1797  his  was  the  only  house  on  the  road.  Dur. 
ing  the  Revolution  a  party  of  Indians,  led  by  a  white  man,  surrounded 
the  house,  and  made  Whipple  their  prisoner.  Inventing  some  pretext, 
the  colonel  obtained  leave  to  go  into  another  room,  from  which  he  made 
his  escape  by  a  window  and  fled  to  the  woods,  where  he  successfully 
eluded  pursuit. 

Finding  myself  already  well  advanced  toward  the  summit  of  Starr 
King,  I  finished  the  ascent  of  this  mountain  during  an  afternoon's  stroll. 
Nothing  worthy  of  remark,  except  the  exquisite  view  from  the  summit, 
presented  itself.  Here  I  met  again  a  throng  of  old  acquaintances,  and 
encountered  a  crowd  of  new  ones.  Here  I  saw  something  like  a  shadow 
darken  the  side  of  Mount  W^ashington,  and  watched  it  creep  steadily  up 
and  up  to  the  summit.  The  shadow  was  the  smoke  of  the  locomotive 
making  its  last  ascent  for  the  day,  under  the  eyes  of  thousands  of  spec- 
tators, who  look  at  it  to  turn  away  with  a  smile,  a  shrug,  or  a  shake  of 
the  head. 

The  name  of  Starr  King  has  become  a  household  word  with  all  trav- 
ellers in  the  White  Mountains.  It  was  most  fitting  that  he  who  inter- 
preted Nature  so  w-ell  and  so  truly  should  receive  his  monument  at  her 
hands.  To  him  the  mountains  were  emblematic  of  her  highest  perfec- 
tion. He  loved  them.  His  tone  when  speaking  of  them  is  always  ten- 
der and  caressing.  They  appealed  to  his  rare  and  exquisite  perception 
of  the  beautiful,  to  his  fine  and  sensitive  nature,  capable  of  detecting 
intuitively  what  was  hid  from  common  eyes.     He  felt  their  presence  to 


JEFFERSON,   AND     VALLEY    OF    LSRAEL'S    RIVER.     295 

be  ennobling  and  uplifting.  He  opened  for  us  the  charmed  portal.  We 
accompanied  him  through  an  earthly  paradise  then  first  revealed  to  us 
by  the  fervor  and  wealth  of  his  description.  He  led  us  to  the  shadiest 
retreats,  the  coolest  groves,  the  most  secluded  glens.  He  guided  our 
footsteps  up  the  steep  mountain  -  side  to  the  bleak  summit.  Thrice 
fitting  was  it  that  a  mountain  should  perpetuate  the  name  of  Thomas 
Starr  King.  As  was  said  at  the  grave  of  Gautier,  he  too  dated  "from 
the  creation  of  the  beautiful." 


I  have  now  rested  four  days  at  Ethan  Crawford's,  who  lives  on  the 
side  of  Boy  Mountain,  five  miles  east  of  Jefferson  Hill,  on  the  road  to 
Gorham.  This  Ethan  is  a  son  of  the  celebrated  sjuide  and  host  so  well 
known  to  former  travellers  by  the  sobriqtiet  of  Keeper  of  the  Mountains. 

I  go  to  the  window,  and  facing  toward  the  setting  sun  look  clown 
the  broadening  valley  of  Israel's  River,  over  the  glistening  house-tops 
of  Whitefield,  into  and  beyond  the  Connecticut  Valley.  I  have  Mitten 
Mountain  and  Cherry  Mountain,  both  heavily  wooded,  just  over  the  way, 
although  the  view  of  these  elevations  is  in  part  intercepted  by  a  nearer 
mountain,  also  covered  with  a  vigorous  forest.  At  this  moment  I  hear 
the  rush  of  the  stream  far  down  in  the  Hollow ;  and,  following  the  ser- 
pentine line  its  dark  course  makes  among  the  press  of  hills,  am  con- 
fronted by  the  massive  slopes  of  Madison  and  Adams,  the  sombre  ravine 
and  castled  crags  of  Jefferson,  and  the  hoary  crest  of  Washington.  I 
am  really  in  the  heart  of  the  mountains. 

Swiftly  from  these  mountains  descend,  with  exquisite  grace,  enor- 
mous billows  of  deep  sea-green,  which  do  not  subside  but  lift  themselves 
proudly  at  the  foot  of  those  great  overhanging  walls  of  olive  and  mala- 
chite. Here  rolling  together,  their  foliage,  bright  or  dark,  repeats  the 
effect  of  flaws  sweeping  over  a  sunny  sea.  Their  deep  hollows,  arching 
sides,  and  limpid  crests  perfect  the  resemblance  to  the  moment  when, 
having  exerted  its  utmost  energy,  the  panting  ocean  stands  exhausted 
and  motionless  in  the  grasp  of  the  north  wind. 

•  These  lower  mountains,  interposing  a  barrier  between  the  two  valleys 
of  the  Ammonoosuc  and  of  Israel's  River,  seem,  you  think,  pushed  up 
from  the  yielding  earth  simply  by  the  enormous  weight  of  the  higher 
and  neighboring  mountains  whose  keen  summit-lines  cut  New  England 


296  THE     HEART    OF    THE    WHITE    MOUXTAIXS. 

in  halves.  At  this  hour  these  Hnes  are  edged  with  dull  gold.  All  along 
the  wavering  heights  I  can  detect  with  the  naked  eye  isolated  black 
crags,  and  can  plainly  see  the  deep  dents  in  the  broken  cornices  and 
capitals  of  the  grand  old  mountains — those  vestiges  of  their  primordial 
architecture.  Here  the  inclined  ridge  of  the  plateau,  connecting  the 
pinnacle  of  Washington  with  the  peaks  of  Monroe,  is  traced  along  its 
whole  extent.  At  this  distance  its  craggy  outline  breaks  in  light  ripples, 
announcing  nothing  of  that  wilderness  of  stones  assailing  the  climber. 
All  the  asperities  are  softened  into  capricious  harmonies.  Below  yawn 
the  ravines. 

The  tracks  of  old  slides  and  torrents  in  the  side  of  Monroe  remind 
you  of  the  branches  of  a  gigantic  fossil  tree,  exposed  by  a  fracture  divid- 
ing the  mountain  in  two.  Such  is,  in  fact,  the  impression  received  by 
looking  at  this  mountain  ;  but  the  object  which  most  excites  my  atten- 
tion is  the  broad  and  deep  rent  in  the  side  of  Jefferson,  over  which  hang 
on  one  side  the  crumbling  counterfeits  of  towers  and  battlements,  while 
on  the  other  cataracts,  like  necklaces,  are  suspended  over  its  unfathomed 
abysses.  Cloud-shadows  drift  noiselessly  along  the  warm  steeps.  Cata- 
racts glisten  brightly  in  the  sun.  The  grave  peaks  look  down  unmoved 
on  the  play  of  the  one  and  the  sport  of  the  other. 

The  picture  of  life  in  East  Jefferson  would  not  be  complete  without 
the  old  hound  dozing  in  the  sun,  the  turkey-cocks  strutting  consequen- 
tially up  and  down,  the  barn-swallows  darting  swiftly  in  and  out,  the  ring 
of  young  Ethan's  anvil,  and  the  bleating  of  sheep  far  up  the  mountain- 
side. I  see  them  nibbling  the  fresh  herbage,  and  watch  the  gambols 
of  the  lambs  like  a  child  —  only  the  child  laughs  aloud,  and  I  do  not 
laugh.  Voices  come  down  the  hill-side,  and  I  see  the  slow  movement 
of  a  hammock  and  the  flutter  of  a  dress  in  the  maple-grove.  Poetry  and 
perfume  mingle  with  the  scent  of  wild -flowers  and  songs  of  golden- 
mouthed  birds. 

Evening  does  not  drive  us  within  doors,  the  nights  are  so  enchant- 
ing. Day  fades  imperceptibly  out.  Even  the  stars  seem  disconcerted. 
One  by  one  they  peep,  and  then  flit  from  view.  We  watch  the  slow 
mustering  of  the  celestial  host  in  silence.  A  meteor  leaps  from  heaven 
to  earth.  The  fire -flies  resemble  a  shower  of  sparks,  or.  as  darkness 
deepens,  a  phosphorescent  sea.  Dorbeetles  hurtle  the  still  air.  and  frogs 
sing  barcarolles  in  the  misty  fens.  Now  the  mountains  put  on  their  sable 
armor  that  is  to  render  them  invisible.     Here  the  poet  must  assist  us: 


JEFFERSOX,   AXD     VALLEY    OF    LSRAEVS    ELVER.     297 

"It  is  the  hush  of  night;  and  all  between 

Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear. 
Mellowed  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen — 
Save  darkened  Jura,  whose  capped  heights  appear 
Precipitously  steep." 

Light  seems  reluctant  to  leave  the  summits.  It  docs  not  wholly  fade 
out  of  the  west  until  a  late  hour.  In  a  clear  and  starry  nioht  all  the  sur- 
rounding  mountains  can  be  distinguished  long  after  the  valley  is  steeped 
in  darkness.  At  half-past  nine  I  could  easily  tell  the  time  by  my  watch  ; 
and  even  at  this  hour  a  pale,  nebulous  light  still  lingered  where  the  sun 
had  gone  down.  So  at  near  two  tliousand  feet  above  the  full  sea  one 
peers  over  into  that  deeper  horizon  where  twilight  and  dawn  meet  and 
embrace  on  the  dusky  threshold  of  midnight. 

While  in  the  neighborhood,  I  devoted  a  day  to  an  exploration  of  the 
Ravine  of  the  Cascades.  This  ravine  is  entered  from  a  point  on  the 
Gorham  road  about  three  miles  distant  from  the  Mount  Adams  House. 
A  cart-way  crosses  the  meadow  here  to  an  abandoned  mill  which  is  on 
the  stream  coming  from  the  ra\ine,  and  by  which  you  must  ascend.  A 
more  beautiful  example  of  a  mountain  brook  it  has  never  been  my  lot  to 
see.  The  ascent  is,  however,  tedious  and  toilsome  in  the  extreme  over 
the  smooth  and  slippery  rocks  in  its  bed.  Four  hours  of  this  brought 
me  to  the  region  of  low  trees,  and  to  the  foot  of  the  first  fall,  which,  I 
judged,  descended  about  thirty  feet.  This  way  to  the  summit  is  open 
only  to  the  most  vigorous  climbers.  Even  tlien  it  is  better  to  descend 
into  the  ravine  from  the  gap  between  Adams  and  Jefferson  in  order  to 
visit  these  cascades. 

The  two  most  profitable  excursions  to  be  made  here  are  undoubtedly 
the  ascent  of  Mount  Adams  and  the  drive  to  the  top  of  Randolph  Hill. 
I  have  found  on  the  first  summit  irrefragable  evidence  that,  next  to  W'ash- 
ington  and  Lafayette,  Adams  is  the  peak  which  summer  tourists  are  most 
desirous  of  ascending.  A  good  path,  on  which  there  is  a  camp,  leads  to 
the  summit.  Having  other  views  in  regard  to  this  mountain,  which  I 
had  so  often  admired  from  a  distance,  I  made  a  third  reconnoisance  of 
its  outworks  and  its  remarkable  ravine,  while  en  rotite  for  Randolph  Hill. 

Unquestionably  fine  as  the  views  are  along  this  road,  on  which  you 
are  at  one  time  rolling  smoothly  over  meadow  or  upland,  with  the  great 
northern  peak  rising  to  its  full  height,  or  again  toiling  up  a  stony 
hill-side  to   obtain  a  much  better  idea   of  its   real  character  and  prodig- 

24 


298  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

ious  dimensions,  the  climax  is  reserved  until,  turninof  from  the  hieh- 
way,  you  begin  a  slow  advance  up  the  long  hill-side  that  makes  an  al- 
most uninterrupted  descent  for  five  miles  to  the  Androscoggin.  Here 
I  saw  from  a  balcony  what  I  had  before  seen  from  the  ground -floor. 
The  view  is  large  and  expansive.  You  look  down  the  surging  land 
into  the  Androscoggin.  You  look  over  among  the  mountains  circling 
its  head,  huddled  together  like  a  frightened  herd.  You  look  down  into 
the  valley  of  the  Moose,  and  through  the  gap  in  the  great  chain  you 
again  see  the  valley  of  the  Peabody  and  the  Carter  Notch.  Now  you 
hold  the  great  northern  peaks  admiringly  at  arm's-length,  as  you  would 
an  old  friend.  Putting  an  imaginary  hand  on  each  broad  shoulder,  you 
scan  them  from  head  to  foot.  They  submit  calmly  and  with  condescen- 
sion to  your  lengthened  scrutiny.  Presently  the  low  sun  floods  them 
with  royal  purple  and  gilds  the  topmost  crags  with  refined  gold.  You 
glance  up  the  valley.  The  little  river  comes  like  a  stream  of  fire  which 
the  huge  mountains  seem  crowding  forward  to  trample  out.  Now  look 
down.  The  same  mountains  seem  spurning  the  glittering  serpent  away 
from  their  feet. 

King's  Ravine  is  as  well  seen  from  this  point,  perhaps,  as  any.  It  is 
a  huge  natural  niche  excavated  high  up  the  mountain.  You  see  every- 
thing—  grizzled  spruces,  blackened  shafts  of  stone,  rifted  walls,  tawny 
crags — all  in  one  glance.  It  is  formidable  and  forbidding,  though  a  way 
has  been  made  through  it  by  w^iich  to  ascend  Mount  Adams.  Now 
that  there  is  a  good  path  skirting  the  ravine  and  avoiding  it,  that  look 
will  usually  suffice  to  deter  sensible  people  from  attempting  to  reach  the 
summit  by  it.  It  is  far  better  to  descend  into  it  and  grope  one's  way 
dow-n  through  and  underneath  the  bowlders.  The  same,  and  even 
greater,  obstacles  are  encountered  as  in  Tuckerman's.  In  early  spring 
the  walls  of  the  ravine  are  streaked  with  slowly-melting  snows.  These 
gulches,  all  converging  toward  the  bottom,  send  a  torrent  roaring  down 
with  noise  equal  to  surf  on  a  hard  sea-beach.  This  torrent  is  the  prin- 
cipal source  of  the  Moose. 

Well  do  I  remember  my  first  venture  here.  I  had  walked  from 
Gorham.  Seeing  a  man  chopping  wood  by  the  side  of  the  road,  I 
entered  into  conversation  with  him ;  but  at  the  first  suggestion  I  let 
fall  of  an  intention  to  climb  to  the  ravine  he  gaped  open-mouthed.  To 
ascend  the  brook  to  the  ravine,  the  escarpment  of  the  ravine  to  the  high 
precipices,  the  precipices  to  the  gate-way,  was  an  exploit  in  those  days. 


JEFFERSON,   AND     VALLEY    OF    ISRAEL'S    RIVER.     299 

But  this  was  long  ago.  A  good  climber  now  puts  King's  Ravine  down 
in  his  list  of  excursions  with  the  same  nonchalance  that  a  belle  of  the 
ball-room  enters  an  additional  waltz  on  her  card  of  engagements.^ 

One  day  I  had  fished  along  the  Moose  without  success.  Nothing 
could  give  a  better  idea  of  a  mountain  stream  than  this  one,  fed  by 
snows  and  gushing  from  the  breached  side  of  Mount  Adams.  But 
either  the  water  was  too  cold  or  the  trout  too  wary.  They  persistently 
refused  my  fly.  I  tried  red  and  brown  hackle,  then  a  white  moth-miller; 
all  to  no  purpose.  Feeling  downright  hungry,  I  determined  to  seek  a 
dinner  elsewhere.  Unjointing  my  rod,  I  returned,  rather  crestfallen,  down 
the  mountain  into  the  road. 

I  knocked  at  the  first  house.  Pretty  soon  the  curtain  of  the  first 
window  at  my  left  hand  was  partly  drawn  aside.  I  felt  that  I  was  under 
the  fire  of  a  pair  of  very  black  eyes.  An  instant  after  the  door  was  half- 
opened  by  a  woman  past  middle  life,  who  examined  me  with  a  scared 
look  while  wiping  her  hands  on  a  corner  of  her  apron.  Two  or  three 
white  heads  peeped  out  from  the  folds  of  her  dress  like  young  chickens 
from  the  old  hens  wing,  and  as  many  pairs  of  widely -opened  eyes  sur- 
veyed me  with  innocent  surprise. 

Perceiving  her  confusion,  I  was  on  the  point  of  asking  some  indiffer- 
ent question,  about  the  distance,  the  road — I  knew  not  what — but  my 
stomach  gave  me  a  twinge  of  disdain,  and  I  stood  my  ground.  Hunger 
has  no  conscience :  honor  was  at  stake.  In  two  words  I  made  known 
my  wants,  I  confess  with  confidence  oozing  away  at  my  fingers'  ends. 

Her  confusion  became  still  greater — so  evident,  indeed,  that  I  took  a 
backward  step  and  stammered,  quite  humbly,  "  A  hunch  of  bread-and- 
cheese  or  a  cup  of  milk  — "  when  the  good -wife  nailed  me  to  the 
threshold. 

Quoth  she,  "  The  men  folks  have  all  ct  their  dinners,  and  there  hain't 
no  more  meat;  but  if  you  could  put  up  with  a  few  trout.''" 

Put  up  with  trout !  Did  I  hear  aright  ?  The  word  made  my 
mouth  water.  I  softly  repeated  it  to  myself — "  Trout !" — would  I  put 
up  with  trout. J*  Not  to  lower  myself  in  this  woman's  estimation,  I 
replied  that,  seeing  there  was  nothing  else  in  the  house,  I  would  put 

'  The  greater  part  of  the  ascent  so  nearly  coincides,  in  its  main  features,  with  that  into 
Tuckerman's,  that  a  description  would  be,  in  effect,  a  repetition.  To  my  mind  Tuckerman's 
is  the  grander  of  the  two ;  it  is  only  when  the  upper  section  of  King's  is  reached  that  it  begins 
to  be  either  grand  or  interesting  by  comparison. 


300  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

up  with  trout.  Let  it  suffice  that  I  made  a  repast  fit  for  a  prince,  and, 
Hke  a  prince,  being  served  by  a  bashful  maiden  with  cheeks  Hke  the 
arbutus,  which  everybody  knows  shows  its  most  delicate  pink  only  in 
the  seclusion  of  its  native  woods. 

My  hours  of  leisure  in  Jefferson  being  numbered,  having  now  made 
the  circuit  of  the  great  range  by  all  the  avenues  penetrating  or  environ- 
ing it,  the  readers  further  indulgence  is  craved  while  his  faithful  guide 
points  his  well-worn  alpenstock  to  the  last  stage  of  our  mountain 
journeys. 

Behold  us  at  last,  after  many  capricious  wanderings,  after  calculated 
avoidance,  approaching  the  inevitable  end.  We  are  en  roitte  for  Fa- 
byan's  by  the  road  over  Cherry  Mountain.  This  road  is  twelve  miles 
long.  As  we  mount  with  it  the  side  of  Cherry  Mountain  the  beautiful 
vistas  continually  detain  us.  We  are  now  climbing  the  eastern  wall  of 
the  valley,  so  long  the  prominent  figure  from  the  heights  of  Jefferson. 
W^e  now  look  back  upon  the  finely-traced  slopes  of  Starr  King,  with 
the  village  luxuriously  extended  in  the  sun.  For  some  time  we  are  like 
two  travellers  going  in  opposite  directions,  but  who  turn  again  and  again 
for  a  last  adieu.  Now  the  forest  closes  over  us  and  we  see  each  other 
no  more. 

Noonday  found  me  descending  that  side  of  the  mountain  overlook- 
ing the  Ammonoosuc  Valley.  Where  the  Cherry  Mountain  road  joins 
the  valley  highway  the  White  Mountain  House,  an  old-time  tavern, 
stands.  The  railway  passes  close  to  its  door.  A  mile  more  over  the 
level  brings  us  to  Fabyan's,  so  called  from  one  of  the  old  mountain 
landlords,  whose  immortality  is  thus  assured.  Now  that  mammoth  cara- 
vansary, which  seems  all  eyes,  is  reached  just  as  the  doors  opening 
upon  the  great  hall  disclose  a  long  array  of  tables,  while  permitting  a 
delicious  odor  to  assail  our  nostrils. 

To  speak  to  the  purpose,  the  Fabyan  House  really  commands  a 
superb  front  view  of  Mount  Washington,  from  which  it  is  not  six  miles 
in  a  bee-line.  All  the  southern  peaks,  among  which  Mount  Pleasant 
is  undoubtedly  the  most  conspicuous  for  its  form  and  its  mass,  and  for 
being  thrown  so  boldly  out  from  the  rest,  are  before  the  admiring  spec- 
tator; but  the  northern  peaks,  with  the  exception  of  Clay  and  Jefferson, 
are  cut  off  partly  by  the  slopes  of  Mount  Deception,  which  rises  directly 
before  the  hotel,  partly  by  the  trend  of  the  great  range  itself  to  the 
north-east.     The  view  is  superior  from  the  neighborhood  of  the  Mount 


JEFFERSON,   AND     VALLEY    OF    ISRAEL'S    RIVER. 


;oi 


Pleasant   House,  half   a   mile  beN'ond   Fabyan's,  where   Mount  Jefferson 
is  fully  and  finely  brought  into  the  picture. 

The  railway  is  seen  mounting  a  foot-hill,  crossing  a  second  and 
higher  elevation,  then  dimly  carved  upon  the  massive  flanks  of  Mount 
Washington  itself,  as  far  as  the  long  ridge  which  ascends  from  the  north 
in  one  unbroken  slope.     It  is  then  lost.     We  see  the  houses  upon   the 


MOUNT    WASHINGTON,    FROM    FABVAN  S. 


summit,  and  from  the  Mount  Pleasant  House  the  little  cluster  of  roofs 
at  the  base.  A  long  and  well-defined  gully,  exactly  dividing  the  moun- 
tain, is  frequently  taken  to  be  the  railway,  which  is  really  much  farther 
to  the  left.  The  smoke  of  a  train  ascending  or  descending  still  further 
indicates  the  line  of  iron,  which  we  admit  to  the  category  of  established 
facts  only  under  protest. 

Sylvester  Marsh,  of  Littleton,  New  Hampshire,  was  the  man  who 
dreamed  of  setting  aside  the  laws  of  gravitation  with  a  puff  of  steam. 
Like  all  really  great  inventions,  his  had  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  ridi- 
cule.    When  the  charter  for  a  raihvav  to  the  summit  of  IMount  Wash- 


302  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

ington  was  before  the  Legislature  a  member  moved  that  Mr.  Marsh  also 
have  leave  to  build  one  to  the  moon.  Had  the  motion  prevailed,  I  am 
persuaded  Mr.  Marsh  would  have  built  it.  Really,  the  project  seemed 
only  a  little  more  audacious.  But  in  three  years  from  the  time  work 
was  begun  (April,  iS66)  the  track  was  laid  and  the  mountain  in  irons.' 
The  summit  which  the  superstitious  Indian  dared  not  approach,  nor  the 
most  intrepid  white  hunter  ascend,  is  now  annually  visited  by  thousands, 
without  more  fatigue  than  would  follow  any  other  excursion  occupying 
the  same  time.  The  excitement  of  a  first  passage,  the  strain  upon  the 
nerves,  is  quite  another  thing. 

In  a  little  s:rass-2:rown  enclosure,  on  the  other  side   of  the  Ammon- 
oosuc,  is  a  headstone  bearing  the  following  inscription  : 

IN   MEMORY   OF 

CAP    ELIEZER    ROSBROOK 

WHO    DIED    SEP.  25 
i8r7 

In  the  70  Year 
Of  His  Age. 

When  I  lie  buried  deep  in  dust. 

My  flesh  shall  be  thy  care 
These  withering  limbs  to  thee  I  trust 

To  raise  them  strong  and  fair. 


WIDOW 

HANNAH    ROSEBROOK 

Died  May  4,  1829 

Aged  84 

Blessed  are  the  dead  who  die  in  the  Lord     For  they  rest  from  their  labors 
And  their  works  do  follow  them. 

So  far  as  is  known  Rosebrook  was  the  first  white  settler  on  this  spot. 
One  account''^  says  he  came  here  in  178S,  another  fixes  his  settlement  in 
1792.^     His  military  title  appears  to  have  been  derived  from  services  ren- 

'  The  road  up  the  Rigi,  in  Switzerland,  was  modelled  upon  the  plans  of  Mr.  Marsh. 

=  Dr.  Timothy  Dwight.  '  Rev.  Benjamin  G.  Willey. 


JEFFERSON,   AND     VALLEY    OF    ISRAEL'S    RIVER.     303 

dered  on  the  Canadian  frontier  daring  the  Revolutionary  War.  Rose- 
brook  was  a  true  pioneer,  restless,  adventurous,  and  fearless.  He  was  a 
man  of  larsre  and  athletic  frame.  From  his  home  in  Massachusetts  he 
had  first  removed  to  what  is  now  Colebrook,  then  to  Guildhall,  Vt.,  and 
lastly  here,  to  Nash  and  Sawyer's  Location,  exchanging  the  comforts 
which  years  of  toil  had  surrounded  him  with,  abandoning  the  rich  and 
fertile  meadow-lands  of  the  Connecticut,  for  a  log-cabin  far  from  any  hu- 
man habitation,  and  with  no  other  neighbors  than  the  bears  and  wolves 
that  prowled  unharmed  the  shaggy  wilderness  at  his  door.  With  his  axe 
this  sturdy  yeoman  attacked  the  forest  closely  investing  his  lonely  cabin. 
Year  by  year,  foot  by  foot,  he  wrested  from  it  a  little  land  for  tillage. 
With  his  gun  he  kept  the  beast  of  prey  from  his  little  enclosure,  or  pro- 
vided venison  or  bears  meat  for  the  wife  and  little  ones  who  anxiously 
awaited  his  return  from  the  hunt.  Hunger  and  they  were  no  strangers. 
For  years  the  strokes  of  Rosebrook's  axe,  or  the  crack  of  his  rifle,  were 
the  only  sounds  that  disturbed  the  silences  of  ages.  Little  by  little  the 
circle  was  enlarged.  One  after  another  the  giants  of  the  forest  fell  be- 
neath his  blows.  But  years  of  resolute  conflict  with  nature  and  with 
privation  found  him  at  last  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  dearly-earned  prosper- 
ity. Travellers  began  to  pass  his  doors.  The  Great  White  Mountain 
Notch  soon  became  a  thoroughfare,  which  could  never  have  been  safely 
travelled  but  for  Rosebrook's  intrepidity  and  Rosebrook's  hospitality. 
In  this  way  began  the  feeble  tide  of  travel  through  these  wilds.  In  this 
way  the  splendidly  equipped  hotel,  with  its  thousands  of  guests  the  loco- 
motive every  hour  brings  to  its  door,  traces  its  descent  from  the  rude 
and  humble  cabin  of  Eleazer  Rosebrook. 


.304  THE     HEART    OE    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAIXS. 


X. 

THE    GREAT    NORTHERN    PEAKS. 

Cradled  and  rocked  by  wind  and  cloud. 
Safe  pillowed  on  the  summit  proud, 
Steadied  by  that  encircling  arm 
Which  holds  the  Universe  from  harm, 
I  knew  the  Lord  my  soul  would  keep, 
Upon  His  mountain-tops  asleep! 

Lucy  Larco.m. 

THUS  I  found  myself  again  at  the  base  of  Mount  Washington,  but 
on  the  reverse,  opposed  to  the  Glen.  Before  the  completion  of  the 
railway  from  Fabyan's  to  the  foot  of  the  mountain  I  had  passed  over 
the  intervening  six  miles  by  stage — a  delightful  experience ;  but  one  now 
steps  on  board  an  open  car,  which  in  less  than  half  the  time  formerly  oc- 
cupied leaves  him  at  the  point  where  the  mountain  car  and  engine  wait 
for  him.  The  route  lies  along  the  foaming  Ammonoosuc,  and  its  justly 
admired  falls,  cut  deep  through  solid  granite,  into  the  uncouth  and  bris- 
tling wilderness  which  surrounds  the  base  of  the  mountain.  The  pecu- 
liarity of  these  falls  does  not  consist  in  long,  abrupt  descents  of  per- 
turbed water,  but  in  the  neatly  excavated  caves,  rock  -  niches,  and 
smoothly  rounded  cliffs  and  basins  through  which  for  some  distance 
the  impatient  stream  rears  and  plunges  like  a  courser  feeling  the  curb. 
Imperfect  glimpses  hardly  give  an  idea  of  the  curious  and  interesting 
processes  of  rock-cutting  to  one  who  merely  looks  down  from  the  high 
banks  above  while  the  train  is  in  rapid  motion.  It  is  better,  therefore, 
to  visit  these  falls  by  way  of  the  old  turnpike. 

The  advance  up  the  valley  which  has  first  given  us  an  outlook 
through  the  great  Notch,  on  our  right,  presents  for  some  time  the  huge 
green  hemisphere  of  Mount  Pleasant  as  the  conspicuous  object.  The 
track  then  swerves  to  the  left,  bringing  Mount  Washington  into  \'iew, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  more  we  are  at  the  ill-favored  clump  of  houses  and 
sheds  at  its  base. 


THE     GREAT    NORTHERN    PEAKS. 


305 


The  mechanism  of  the  road-way  is  very  simple.  The  track  is  formed 
of  three  iron  rails,  firmly  clamped  to  stout  timbers,  laid  lengthwise  upon 
transverse  pieces,  or  sleepers.  These  are  securely  embedded,  where  the 
surface  will  allow,  or  raised  upon  trestles,  where  its  inequalities  would 
compel  a  serious  deflection  from  a  smooth  or  regular  inclination.  One 
of  these,  about  half-way  up  the  mountain,  is  called  Jacob's  Ladder. 
Here   the    train   achieves   the   most  difficult  part   of  the   ascent.      After 


MOUNTAIN    RAlLWAY-srAlION    IN    STAGING  TIMES. 


traversing  the  whole  line  on  foot,  and  inspecting  it  minutely  and  thor- 
oughly, I  can  candidly  pronounce  it  not  only  a  marvel  of  mechanical 
skill,  but  bear  witness  to  the  scrupulous  care  taken  to  keep  every  timber 
and  every  bolt  in  its  place.  In  two  words,  the  structure  is  nothing  but 
a  ladder  of  wood  and  iron  laid  upon  the  side  of  the  mountain.' 


The  greatest  angle  of  inclination  is  twelve  feet  in  one  hundred. 


25 


3C6  THE     HEART    OE    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

The  propelling  force  employed  is  equally  simple.  The  engine  and  car 
merely  rest  upon  and  are  kept  in  place  by  the  two  outer  rails,  while  the 
power  is  applied  to  the  middle  one,  which  we  have  just  called  a  rail,  but 
is,  more  properly  speaking,  a  little  ladder  of  steel  cogs,  into  which  the 
corresponding  teeth  of  the  locomotive's  driving-wheel  play — a  firm  hold 
being  thus  secured.  The  question  now  merely  is,  how  much  power  is 
necessary  to  overcome  gravity  and  lift  the  weight  of  the  machine  into 
the  air.!"  This  cogged-rail  is  the  fulcrum,  and  steam  the  lever.  Mr.  Syl- 
vester Marsh  has  not  precisely  lifted  the  mountain,  but  he  has,  never- 
theless, with  the  aid  of  Mr.  Walter  Aiken,  reduced  it,  to  all  intents,  to 
a  level. 

The  boiler  of  the  locomotive,  inclined  forward  so  as  to  preserve  a 
horizontal  position  when  the  engine  is  ascending,  the  smoke-stack  also 
pitched  forward,  give  the  idea  of  a  machine  that  has  been  in  a  collision. 
Everything  seems  knocked  out  of  place.  But  this  queer- looking  thing, 
that  with  bull-dog  tenacity  literally  hangs  on  to  the  mountain  with  its 
teeth,  is  capable  of  performing  a  feat  such  as  Watt  never  dreamed  of, 
or  Stephenson  imagined.  It  goes  up  the  mountain  as  easily  as  a  bear 
climbs  a  tree,  and  like  a  bear. 

I  had  often  watched  the  last  ascension  of  the  train,  which  usually 
reaches  the  summit  at  sunset,  and  I  had  as  often  pleased  myself  with 
considering  whether  it  then  most  resembled  a  big,  shining  beetle  crawl- 
ing up  the  mountain  side,  or  some  fiery  dragon  of  the  fabulous  times, 
dragging  his  prey  after  him  to  his  den,  after  ravaging  the  valley.  My 
own  turn  was  now  come  to  make  the  trial.  It  was  a  cold  afternoon  in 
September  when  I  entered  the  little  carriage,  not  much  larger  tlian  a 
street-car,  and  felt  the  premonitory  jerk  with  which  the  ascent  begins. 
The  first  hill  is  so  steep  that  you  look  up  to  see  the  track  always 
mounting  high  above  your  head ;  but  one  soon  gets  used  to  the  novelty, 
and  to  the  clatter  which  accompanies  the  incessant  dropping  of  a  pawl 
into  the  indentures  of  the  cogged -rail,  and  in  which  he  recognizes  an 
element  of  safety.  The  train  did  not  move  faster  than  one  could  walk, 
but  it  moved  steadily,  except  when  it  now  and  then  stopped  at  a  water- 
tank,  standing  solitary  and  alone  upon  the  waste  of  rocks. 

By  the  time  we  emerged  above  the  forest  into  the  chill  and  wind- 
swept desolation  above  it — a  first  sight  of  which  is  so  amazing — the  sun 
had  set  behind  the  Green  Mountain  summits,  showing  a  long,  serrated 
line  of  crimson  peaks,  above  which  clouds  of  lake  floated  in  a  sea  of  am- 


THE     GREAT    X O R  T H E R X    PEAKS.  307 

ber.  It  grew  very  cold.  Great -coats  and  shawls  were  quickly  put  on. 
Thick  darkness  enveloped  the  mountain  as  we  approached  the  head  of 
the  profound  gulf  separating  us  from  Mount  Clay,  which  is  the  most 
remarkable  object  seen  at  any  time  either  during  the  ascent  or  descent. 
Into  this  pitchy  ravine,  into  its  midnight  blackness,  a  long  and  brilliant 
train  of  sparks  trailed  downward  from  the  locomotive,  so  that  we  seemed 
being  transported  heavenward  in  a  chariot  of  fire.  This  flaming  torch, 
liy-htins:  us  on,  now  disclosed  snow  and  ice  on  all  sides.  We  had  sue- 
cessfully  attained  the  last  slope  which  conceals  the  railway  from  the 
valley.  Up  this  the  locomotive  toiled  and  panted,  while  we  watched 
the  stars  come  out  and  emit  cold  gleams  around,  above,  beneath.  The 
light  of  the  Summit  House  twinkled  small,  then  grew  large,  as,  sur- 
mounting the  last  and  steepest  pitch  of  the  pinnacle,  we  were  pushed 
before  a  lomj  row  of  lis:hted  windows  crusted  thick  with  hoar-frost. 
Stiffened  with  cold,  the  passengers  rushed  for  the  open  door  without 
ceremony.  In  an  instant  the  car  was  empty;  while  the  locomotive, 
dripping  with  its  unheard-of  efforts,  seemed  to  regard  this  desertion 
with  reproachful  glances. 

Reader,  have  you  ever  sat  beside  Mrs.  Dodge's  fire  after  such  a 
passive  ascension  as  that  just  described }  After  a  two  hours'  combat 
with  the  instinct  of  self-preservation,  did  you  dream  of  such  comforts, 
luxuries  even,  awaiting  you  on  the  bleak  mountain -top,  where  nothing 
grows,  and  where  water  even  congeals  and  refuses  to  run .''  Could  you, 
in  the  highest  flights  of  fancy,  imagine  that  you  would  one  day  sit  in 
the  courts  of  heaven,  or  feast  sumptuously  amid  the  stars .?  All  this 
you  either  have  done  or  may  do.  And  now,  while  the  smartly -dressed 
waiter-girl,  who  seems  to  have  donned  her  white  apron  as  a  personal 
favor,  brings  you  the  best  the  larder  affords,  pinch  yourself  to  see  if  you 
are  awake. 

In  several  ascensions  by  the  railway  I  have  always  remarked  the 
same  symptoms  of  uneasiness  among  the  passengers,  betrayed  by  pale 
faces,  compressed  lips,  hands  tightening  their  grasp  of  the  chairs,  or  sub- 
dued and  startled  exclamations,  quickly  repressed.  To  escape  the  in- 
fluence of  such  weird  surroundings  one  should  be  absolutely  stolid — a 
stock  or  a  stone.  So  for  all  it  is  an  experience  more  or  less  acute,  ac- 
cording to  his  sensibility,  strength  of  nerve,  and  power  of  self-control. 
However  well  it  may  be  disguised,  the  strong  equally  with  the  weak,  and 
more  deeply  than  the  weak,  feel  the  strain  which   ninety  minutes'  com- 


308  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

bat  with  gravitation,  attraction,  ponderosity,  engenders.  The  mind  does 
not  for  a  single  instant  quit  its  hold  of  this  defiance  of  Nature's  laws. 
As  long  as  iron  and  steel  hold  fast,  there  is  no  danger;  but  you  think 
iron  and  steel  are  iron  and  steel,  and  no  more.  An  anecdote  will  illus- 
trate this  feeling. 

After  pointing  out  to  a  lady -passenger  the  skilful  devices  for  stop- 
ping the  engine — the  pawl,  the  steam,  and  the  atmospheric  brakes — and 
after  patiently  explaining  their  mechanism  and  uses,  the  listener  asked 
the  conductor,  with  much  interest, 

"Then,  if  the  pawl  breaks  while  we  are  going  up.''" 

"  The  engine  will  be  stopped  by  means  of  these  powerful  brakes,  ap- 
plied directly  to  the  axles,  which  will,  of  course,  render  the  train  motion- 
less. As  the  locomotive  has  two  driving-wheels,  the  engineer  can  bring 
a  double  power  to  bear,  as  you  see.  Each  is  independent  of  the  other, 
so  that  if  one  gives  way  the  other  is  still  more  than  sufficient  to  keep 
the  engine  stationary." 

"Thank  you;  but  the  car.''" 

"  Oh,  the  car  is  not  attached  to  the  engine  at  all ;  and  should  the 
engineer  lose  the  control  of  his  machine,  which  is  not  at  all  likely,  the 
car  can  be  brought  to  a  stand -still  by  independent  brakes  of  its  own. 
You  see  the  engine  goes  up  behind,  and  in  front,  down;  and  the  car  is 
simply  pushed  forward,  or  follows  it." 

"  So  that  you  consider  it — " 

"  Perfectly  safe,  madam,  perfectly  safe." 

"  Thank  you.  One  cjuestion  more.  Suppose  all  these  things  break 
at  once.     What  then  }     Where  would  we  s:o  .■"" 

"  That,  madam,  would  depend  on  what  sort  of  a  life  you  had  led." 

I  have  still  a  consolation  for  the  timid.  Ten  years'  trial  has  con- 
firmed the  declaration  of  its  projectors,  that  they  would  make  the  road 
as  safe  or  safer  than  the  ordinary  railway.  No  life  has  been  lost  by  an 
injury  to  a  passenger  during  that  time.  Besides,  what  is  the  difference  '^. 
After  its  day,  the  railway  will  pass  like  the  stage-coach — that  is,  unless 
you  believe,  as  you  do  not,  that  the  world  and  all  progress  are  to  stop 
with  ourselves. 

The  affable  lady  hostess  told  me  that  she  paid  an  annual  rental  of 
ten  thousand  dollars  for  her  palace  of  ice ;  nominally  for  a  year,  but 
really  for  a  term  of  only  seventy- six  days,  this  being  the  limit  of  the 
season    upon    the    summit.      During    the    remaining    two    hundred    and 


THE     GREAT    NORTHERN    PEAKS. 


309 


ASCENT   BY   THE   RAILWAY. 


eighty -nine  clays  the   house   is   closed. 

During  four  or  five  months  it  is  buried, 

or  half-buried,  in   a  snow-drift.     Of  this  large  sum, 

three   thousand   dollars   go   to    the   Pingree    heirs.      These 

facts  may  tend  to   modify  the  views  of  those  who   think  the 

charsfes  exorbitant,  if  such  there  are. 


310  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

Raising  my  eyes  to  look  out  of  the  window,  the  hght  from  within 
fell  upon  a  bank  of  snow.  A  man  was  stooping  over  it  as  if  in  search 
of  something.  Going  out,  I  found  him  fcehng  it  with  his  hands,  and 
examining  it  with  childish  wonder  and  curiosity.  1  approached  this 
eccentric  person  very  softly ;  but  he,  seeing  my  shadow  on  the  snow  be- 
side him,  looked  up. 

"  Can  I  assist  you  in  recovering  what  you  have  lost  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  Thank  you ;  no.  I  have  lost  nothing.  Ah  !  I  see,"  he  continued, 
laughing  quietly,  "you  think  I  have  lost  my  wits.  But  it  is  not  so.  I 
am  a  native  of  the  East  Indies,  and  I  assure  you  this  is  the  first  time 
in  my  life  I  have  ever  seen  snow  near  enough  to  handle  it.  Imagine 
what  an  experience  the  ascent  of  Mount  Washington  is  for  me !" 

We  took  a  turn  down  the  hard -frozen  Glen  road  together  in  order 
to  see  the  moon  come  up.  The  telegraph-poles,  fantastically  crusted  with 
ice  to  the  thickness  of  a  foot,  stretched  a  line  of  white-huoded  phantoms 
down  the  dark  side  of  the  mountain.  From  successive  coatings  of 
frozen  mist  the  wires  were  as  thick  as  cables.  Couches  of  snow  lay 
along  the  rocks,  and  fresh  snow  had  apparently  been  rubbed  into  all 
the  inequalties  of  the  cliffs  rising  out  of  the  Great  Gulf.  The  scene  was 
supremely  weird,  supremely  desolate. 

From  here  we  crossed  over  to  the  railway,  and,  ascending  by  it, 
shortly  came  upon  the  heap  of  stones,  surmounted  by  its  tablet,  erected 
on  the  spot  where  Miss  Bourne  perished  while  ascending  the  mountain, 
in  September,  1855.  The  party,  of  which  she  was  one,  setting  out  in 
high  spirits  in  the  afternoon  from  the  Glen  House,  was  overtaken  near 
the  summit  by  clouds,  which  hid  the  house  from  view,  and  among  which 
they  became  bewildered.  It  was  here  Miss  Bourne  declared  she  could 
go  no  farther.  Overcome  by  her  exertions,  she  sunk  exhausted  and 
fainting  upon  the  rocks.  Her  friends  were  scarcely  awakened  to  her 
true  condition  when,  amid  the  surrounding  darkness  and  gloom,  this 
young  and  lovely  maiden  of  only  twenty  expired  in  the  arms  of  her 
uncle.  The  mourners  wrapped  the  body  in  their  own  cloaks,  and,  igno- 
rant that  a  few  rods  only  separated  them  from  the  summit,  kept  a  vigil 
throughout  the  long  and  weary  night.  We  hasten  over  this  night  of 
dread.  In  the  morning,  discovering  their  destination  a  few  rods  above 
them,  they  bore  the  lifeless  form  of  their  companion  to  it  with  feelings 
not  to  be  described.  A  rude  bier  was  made,  and  she  who  had  started 
up  the  mountain  full  of  life  now  descended  it  a  corpse. 


THE     GKEA2'    XORTHERX    PEAKS.  311 

The  evening  treated  us  to  a  magnificent  spectacle.  The  moon,  in 
full-orbed  splendor,  moved  majestically  up  the  heavens,  attended  by  her 
glittering  retinue  of  stars.  Frozen  peaks,  reflecting  the  mild  radiance, 
shone  like  beaten  silver.  But  the  immense  hollows  between,  the  deep 
valleys  that  had  been  open  to  view,  were  now  inundated  with  a  white 
and  luminous  vapor,  from  which  the  multitude  of  icy  summits  emerged 
like  a  vast  archipelago — a  sea  of  islands.  This  spectral  ocean  seemed 
on  the  point  of  ingulfing  the  mountains.  This  motionless  sea,  these 
austere  peaks,  uprising,  were  inconceivably  weird  and  solemnizing.  An 
awful  hush  pervaded  the  inanimate  but  threatening  host  of  cloud -girt 
mountains.  Upon  them,  upon  the  sea  of  frozen  vapor,  absorbing  its 
light,  the  clear  moon  poured  its  radiance.  The  stars  seemed  nearer  and 
brighter  than  ever  before.  The  planets  shone  with  piercing  brilliancy ; 
they  emitted  a  sensible  light.  The  Milky  Way,  erecting  its  glittering 
nebula  to  the  zenith,  to  which  it  was  pinned  by  a  dazzling  star,  floated, 
a  glorious,  star-spangled  veil,  amid  this  vast  sea  of  gems.  One  could 
vaguely  catch  the  idea  of  an  unpeopled  desolation  rising  from  the 
fathomless  void  of  a  primeval  ocean.  The  peaks,  incased  in  snow  and 
ice,  seemed  stamped  with  the  traces  of  its  subsidence.  Pale  and  hag- 
gard, they  lifted  their  antique  heads  in  silent  adoration. 

Going  to  my  room  and  extinguishing  the  light,  I  stood  for  some  time 
at  the  window,  unable  to  reconcile  the  unwonted  appearance  of  the  stars 
shining  far  below,  with  the  fixed  idea  that  they  ought  not  to  be  there. 
Yet  there  they  were.  To  tell  the  truth,  my  head  was  filled  with  the  sur- 
passing pomp  I  had  just  witnessed,  of  which  I  had  not  before  the  faint- 
est conception.  I  felt  as  if  I  was  silently  conversing  with  all  those  stars, 
looking  at  me  and  my  petty  aspirations  with  such  inflexible,  disdainful 
immobility.  When  one  feels  that  he  is  nothing,  self-assurance  is  no 
great  thing.  The  conceit  is  taken  out  of  him.  On  a  mountain  the  man 
stands  naked  before  his  Maker.  He  is  nothing.  That  is  why  I  leave 
him  there. 

That  night  I  did  not  sleep  a  wink.  Twenty  times  I  jumped  out  of 
bed  and  ran  to  the  window  to  convince  myself  that  it  was  not  all  a 
dream.  No ;  moon  and  stars  were  still  bright.  Over  the  Great  Gulf, 
all  ghastly  in  the  moonlight,  stood  Mount  Jefferson  in  his  winding-sheet. 
I  dressed  myself,  and  from  the  embrasure  of  my  window  kept  a  vigil. 

Sunrise  did  not  produce  the  startling  effect  I  had  anticipated.  The 
morning  was  fine  and  cloudless.     A  gong  summoned  the  inmates  of  the 


312  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

hotel  to  the  spectacle.  Without  dressing  themselves,  they  ran  to  their 
windows,  where,  wrapped  in  bed -blankets,  they  stood  eagerly  watching 
the  east.  To  the  pale  emerald  of  early  dawn  a  ruddy  glow  succeeded. 
Before  we  were  aware,  the  rocky  waste  around  us  grew  dusky  red. 
The  crimsoned  air  glided  swiftly  over  the  neighboring  summits.  Now 
the  brightness  was  upon  Adams  and  Jefferson  and  Clay,  and  now  it 
rolled  its  purpled  flood  into  the  Great  Gulf,  to  mingle  with  the  intense 
blackness  at  the  bottom.  For  some  moments  the  mountain-tops  held 
the  color,  then  it  was  transfused  into  the  clear  sunshine  of  open  day; 
while  the  vapors,  heavy  and  compact,  stretched  along  the  valleys,  still 
smotheringr  the  land,  retained  their  leaden  hue. 

It  was  still  early  when  I  descended  the  carriage-road  on  my  way  to 
Mount  Adams.  The  usual  way  is  to  keep  the  railway  as  far  as  the  old 
Gulf  Tank,  near  which  is  a  house  of  refuge,  provided  with  a  cooking- 
stove,  fuel,  and  beds.  I  continued,  however,  to  coast  the  upper  crags 
of  the  Great  Gulf,  until  compelled  to  make  directly  for  the  southern 
peak  of  Mount  Clay.  The  view  from  this  col  is  imposing,  embracing 
at  once,  and  without  turning  the  head,  all  the  southern  summits  of  the 
chain.  Here  I  was  joined  by  two  travellers  fresh  from  Mont  Blanc  and 
the  Matterhorn. 

Each  choosing  a  route  for  himself,  we  pushed  on  to  the  liigh  summit 
of  Clay,  from  which  we  looked  down  into  the  deep  gap  dividing  this 
mountain  from  Jefferson.  Arrived  there,  we  resolutely  attacked  tlie  east- 
ern slopes  of  this  fine  peak,  whose  notched  summit  rose  more  tlian  seven 
hundred  and  fifty  feet  above  our  heads.  Patches  of  Alpine  grasses,  of 
reindeer- moss,  interspersed  with  irregular  ridges  of  stones,  extended 
quite  up  to  the  summit,  which  was  a  mere  elongated  stone-heap  crowning 
the  apex  of  its  cone.  Those  undulating  masses  encircling  its  bulk,  half 
hid  among  the  grass,  were  like  an  inmiense  python  crushing  the  moun- 
tain in  its  deadly  folds.  We  picked  our  way  carefully  among  this 
chaotic  debris,  which  the  Swiss  aptly  call  "  cemeteries  of  the  devil," 
tripping  now  and  then  in  the  long,  wiry  grass,  or  burying  our  feet 
among  the  hummocks  of  dry  moss,  which  were  so  many  impediments 
to  rapid  progress.  This  appearance  and  this  experience  were  common 
to  the  whole  route. 

At  each  summit  we  threw  ourselves  upon  the  ground,  to  feast  upon 
the  landscape  while  regaining  breath.  Each  halt  developed  more  and 
more  the  grand  and  stupendous  mass  of  Washington  receding  from  the 


THE     GREAT    NORTHERN    PEAKS.  313 

depths  of  tlie  Great  Gulf,  along  whose  edge  the  carriage-road  serpentined 
and  finally  disappeared.  We  saw,  a  little  softened  by  distance,  the  hor- 
ribly mutilated  crags  of  the  head  wall  stripped  bare  of  all  verdure,  pre- 
senting on  its  knobbed  agglomerates  of  tempest-gnawed  granite  a  thou- 
sand eye-catching  points  and  detaining  as  many  shadows.  Nothing — 
not  even  the  glittering  leagues  of  mountains  and  valleys  shooting  or 
slumbering  above,  beneath — so  riveted  the  attention  as  this  apparently 
bottomless  pit  of  the  five  mountains.  It  was  a  continued  wonder.  It 
drew  us  by  a  strange  magnetism  to  its  dizzy  brink,  chained  us  there,  and 
then  abandoned  us  to  a  physical  and  moral  vertigo,  in  which  the  power 
of  critical  investigation  was  lost.  An  invisible  force  seemed  always  drag- 
ging us  toward  it.  Whence  comes  this  horrible,  this  uncontrollable  de- 
sire to  throw  ourselves  in  .'' 

Out  of  the  death-like  torpor  which  eternally  shrouds  the  ravine  the 
smiling  valley  seems  escaping.  The  crystal  air  of  the  heights  grows 
thick  in  its  depths.  Beasts  and  birds  of  prey  haunt  its  gloomy  solitudes. 
An  immense  grave  seems  yawning  to  receive  the  mountains.  The  aged 
mountains  seem  standing  ^'ith  one  foot  in  the  grave. 

This  gulf  makes  an  impression  altogether  different  from  the  others. 
It  is  an  immense  ravine.  Each  of  the  five  mountains  pushes  down  into 
it  massive  buttresses  of  granite,  forming  lesser  ravines  between  of  con- 
siderable extent.  Through  these  streams  trickle  down  from  invisible 
sources.  But  these  buttresses,  which  fall  lightly  and  gracefully  as  folds 
of  velvet  from  summit  to  base  of  the  highest  mountains,  these  ravines, 
are  hardly  noticed.  The  insatiable  maw  of  the  gulf  swallows  them  as 
easily  as  an  anaconda  a  rabbit.  In  immensity,  which  you  do  not  easily 
grasp,  in  grandeur,  which  you  do  not  know  how  to  measure,  this  has  no 
partakers  here.  Even  the  great  Carter  Mountain,  rising  from  the  Pea- 
body  Valley,  seems  no  more  than  a  stone  rolled  away  from  the  entrance 
of  this  enormous  sepulchre. 

Our  first  difficulties  were  encountered  upon  the  reverse  of  Mount 
Jefferson,  from  whose  side  rocky  spurs  detached  themselves,  and,  jut- 
ting out  from  the  side  of  the  mountain,  formed  an  irregular  line  of  cliffs 
of  varying  height,  in  the  way  we  had  selected  for  the  descent.  But 
these  were  no  great  affair.  We  now  had  the  Ravine  of  the  Castles 
upon  our  left,  the  stately  pyramid  of  Adams  in  front,  and,  beneath,  the 
deep  hollow  between  this  mountain  and  the  one  we  were  descending. 
We  had  the  little  hamlet  of  East  Jefferson  at  the  mouth  of  the  ravine. 

26 


314  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

and  that  crowd  of  peaks,  tightly  wedged  between  the  waters  of  the  Con- 
necticut and  the  Androscoggin,  looming  above  it. 

A  deviation  to  the  left  enabled  us  to  approach  the  Castellated  Ridge, 
which  is,  beyond  dispute,  the  most  extraordinary  rock -formation  the 
whole  extent  of  the  range  can  show.  As  it  is  then  fully  before  you,  it 
is  seen  to  much  better  advantage  when  approached  from  Mount  Adams. 
I  do  not  know  who  gave  it  this  name,  but  none  could  be  more  felicitous 
or  expressive.  It  is  a  sloping  ridge  of  red-brown  granite,  broken  at  its 
summit  into  a  long  line  of  picturesque  towers  and  battlements,  rising 
threateningly  over  an  escarpment  of  debris.  Such  an  illusion  is  too 
rarely  encountered  to  be  easily  forgotten.  It  is  hardly  possible  to  doubt 
you  are  really  looking  at  an  antique  ruin.  One  would  like  to  wander 
among  these  pre-Adamite  fortifications,  which  curiously  remind  him  of  the 
old  Spanish  fortresses  among  the  Pyrenees.  From  the  opposite  side  of 
the  ravine — for  I  had  not  the  time  requisite  for  a  closer  examination — the 
rock  composing  the  most  elevated  portion  of  the  ridge  appears  to  have 
been  split  perpendicularly  down,  probably  by  frost,  allowing  these  broken 
columns  and  shafts  to  stand  erect  upon  the  verge  of  the  abyss.  In  the 
warm  afternoon  light,  when  the  shadows  fall,  it  is  hardly  possible  to 
conceive  a  finer  picture  of  a  crumbling  but  still  formidable  mountain 
fortress.  Bastions  and  turrets  stand  boldly  out.  Each  broken  shaft 
sends  a  long  shadow  streaming  down  into  the  ravine,  whose  high  and 
deeply-furrowed  sides  are  thus  beautifully  striped  with  dusk-purple,  while 
the  sunlit  parts  retain  a  greenish-gray. 

At  the  foot  of  Jefferson  we  found,  concealed  among  rushes,  a  spring, 
which  refreshed  us  like  wells  of  the  desert  the  parched  and  fainting 
Arab.  From  here  two  routes  offered  themselves.  One  was  by  keeping 
the  curved  ridge,  rising  gradually  to  a  subordinate  peak  (Samuel  Adams),^ 
and  to  the  foot  of  the  summit  itself;  a  second  was  by  crossing  the 
ground  sloping  downward  from  this  ridge  into  the  Great  Gulf.  We 
chose  the  latter,  notwithstanding  the  dwarf -spruce,  advancing  well  up 
to  the  foot  of  the  ridge,  promised  a  warm  reception. 

At  last,  after  sustainins;  a  vigorous  tussle  with  the  scrub -firs,  and 
stopping  to  unearth  a  brook  whose  waters  purred  underneath  stones,  I 


'  Samuel  Adams  at  the  feet  of  John  Adams  is  not  the  exact  order  that  we  have  been 
accustomed  to  seeing  these  men.  Better  leave  Samuel  Adams  where  he  stands  in  historj- — 
alone. 


THE     GREAT    NORTHERN    PEAKS. 


315 


stood  at  the  foot  of 

the  pointed  shaft  I  had  so  often 
seen  wedcjed  into  the  skv.     Five  hundred  feet 
or  more  of  the  apex  of  this  pyramid  is  apparently 
formed  of  broken  rocks,  dropped  one  by  one  into  place. 
Nothing  like  a  ledge  or  a  cliff  is  to  be  seen :  only  these 
ponderous,  sharp-edged  masses  of  cold  gray  stone,  lifted 
one  above  another  to   the  tapering  point.      Up  this   mutilated  pyramid 
we  began   a  slow  advance.      It  was   necessary   to  carefully  choose   one 
step  before  taking  another,  in  order  to  avoid  plunging  into  the  deep  cre- 


\H^ 


3l6  THE    HEART    OF    THE     WHITE     MOUNTAINS. 

vasses  traversing  the  jDcak  in  every  direction.  At  last  I  placed  my  foot 
uj)on  the  topmost  crag. 

No  one  can  help  regarding  this  peak  with  the  open  admiration 
which  is  its  due.  You  conceive  that  every  mountain  ought  to  have 
a  pinnacle.  Well,  here  it  is.  We  could  easily  have  stood  astride  the 
culminating  point.  But  how  came  these  rocks  here.''  and  what  was 
the  primitive  structure,  if  these  fragments  we  see  are  its  relics  ?  One 
hardly  believes  that  an  ice -raft  could  have  first  transported  and  then 
deposited  such  misshapen  masses  in  their  present  symmetrical  form. 
Still  less  does  he  admit  that  the  oria.inal  shaft,  crushed  in  a  thousand 
pieces  by  the  glacier  itself,  fell  with  such  grace  as  to  rise  again,  as  he 
now  sees  it,  from  its  own  ruins.  If,  again,  it  proceeds  from  the  eternal 
hammering  of  King  Frost,  what  was  the  antique  edifice  that  first  rose 
so  proudly  above  the  frozen  seas  of  the  great  primeval  void  ?  But  to 
science  the  things  which  belong  to  science.  We  have  a  book  describing 
heaven,  but  not  one  that  resolves  the  problems  of  earth.  The  ''Veiti, 
vicli,  vici"  of  the  Book  of  Genesis  leaves  us  at  the  beginning.  We  are 
still  staring,  still  questioning,  still  vacillating  between  this  theory  and 
that  hypothesis.' 

We  had  from  the  summit  an  inspiring  though  not  an  extensive  view. 
A  bank  of  dun-colored  smoke  smirched  the  fair  western  skv  as  high  as 
the  summits  of  the  Green  Mountains.  At  fifty  miles  mountains  and 
valleys  melted  confusedly  into  each  other.  Water  emitted  only  a  dull 
glimmer.  Here  a  peak  and  there  a  summit  surveyed  us  from  afar.  All 
else  was  intangible;  almost  imaginary.  At  twenty-five  miles  the  land, 
resuming  its  ordinary  appearance,  was  bathed  in  the  soft  brilliance 
caused  by  the  sun  shining  through  an  atmosphere  only  half    transparent. 

Upon  this  obscure  mass  we  traced  once  more  the  well-known  objects 
environing  the  great  mountain.  To  the  south  Mount  Washington  di- 
vided the  landscape  in  two.  For  some  time  we  stood  admiring  its  mag- 
nificent torso,  its  amplitude  of  rock -land,  its  easy  preponderance  over 
every  other  summit.  Again  we  followed  the  road  down  the  great  north- 
east spur.  Once  more  we  caught  the  white  specks  which  denote  the 
line  of  the  railway.     We  plunged  our  eyes  down  into  the   Great   Gulf, 


'  It  is  only  forty  years  since  Agassiz  advanced  his  now  generally  adopted  theory  of  the 
Glacial  Period.  The  Indians  believed  that  the  world  was  originally  covered  with  water,  and 
that  their  god  created  the  dry  land  from  a  grain  of  sand. 


THE     G  K  EAT    N  O  R  THE  R  N    PEAKS.  317 

and  lifted  them  to  the  shattered  protuberances  of  Clay,  which  seemed 
to  mark  the  route  where  the  glacier  crushed  and  ground  its  way  through 
the  very  centre  of  the  chain.  A  second  time  we  descended  Jefferson  to 
the  deep  dip.  opening  like  a  trough  between  two  enormous  sea- waves, 
where  we  first  saw  the  little  Storm  Lake  glistening.  Following  now 
the  long,  rocky  ridge,  rolling  downward  toward  the  hamlets  of  Jeffer- 
son and  Randolph,  the  mountains  yawned  wide  at  our  feet.  We  were 
looking  over  into  King's  Ravine — to  its  very  bottom.  We  peered  curi- 
ously into  its  remotest  depths,  traced  the  difficult  and  breathless  ascent 
through  the  remarkable  natural  gateway  at  its  head  out  upon  a  second 
ridge,  on  which  a  little  pond  (Star  Lake)  lies  hid.  We  then  crossed  the 
gap  communicating  with  Mount  Madison,  whose  summit,  last  and  lowest 
of  the  great  northern  peaks,  dominates  the  Androscoggin  Valley  with 
undisputed  sway.  To-day  it  made  on  us  scarcely  an  impression.  Its 
peak,  which  from  the  valley  holds  a  rough  similitude  with  that  of  Adams, 
is  dwarfed  here.     You  look  down  upon  it. 

More  applicable  to  Adams  than  to  any  other,  for  our  eyes  grow  daz- 
zled with  the  glitter  and  sparkle  of  countless  mica-flakes  incrusting  the 
hard  granite  with  clear  brilliancy  as  from  the  facets  of  a  diamond ;  more 
applicable,  again,  from  the  stern,  unconquerable  attitude  of  the  great 
gray  shaft  itself,  lifted  in  such  conscious  pride  beyond  the  confines  of 
the  vast  ethereal  vault  of  blue — a  tower  of  darkness  invading  the  bright 
realms  of  light ;  a  defiance  flung  by  earth  in  the  face  of  high  heaven — is 
the  magnificent  description  of  the  Matterhorn  from  the  pen  of  Ruskin : 

"  If  one  of  these  little  flakes  of  mica -sand,  hurried  in  tremulous 
spangling  along  the  bottom  of  the  ancient  river,  too  light  to  sink,  too 
faint  to  float,  almost  too  small  for  sight,  could  have  had  a  mind  given 
to  it  as  it  was  at  last  borne  down  with  its  kindred  dust  into  the  abysses 
of  the  stream,  and  laid  (would  it  not  have  thought.'')  for  a  hopeless 
eternity  in  the  dark  ooze,  the  most  despised,  forgotten,  and  feeble  of  all 
earth's  atoms ;  incapable  of  any  use  or  change ;  not  fit,  down  there  in 
the  diluvial  darkness,  so  much  as  to  help  an  earth-wasp  to  build  its  nest, 
or  feed  the  first  fibre  of  a  lichen  —  what  would  it  have  thought  had  it 
been  told  that  one  day,  knitted  into  a  strength  as  of  imperishable  iron, 
rustless  by  the  air,  infusible  by  the  flame,  out  of  the  substance  of  it,  with 
its  fellows,  the  axe  of  God  should  hew  that  Alpine  tower; — that  against 
it — poor,  helpless  mica -flake!  —  the  snowy  hills  should  lie  bowed  like 
flocks  of  sheep,  and  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth  fade  away  in  unregarded 


3lS  THE     HEART    OF    THE     WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

blue;  and  around  it  —  weak,  wave-drifted  mica-flake!  —  tlie  great  war  of 
tlie  firmanent  should  burst  in  thunder,  and  yet  stir  it  not;  and  the  fiery 
arrows  and  angry  meteors  of  the  night  fall  blunted  back  from  it  into  the 
air;  and  all  the  stars  in  the  clear  heaven  should  light,  one  by  one,  as 
they  rose,  new  cressets  ujion  the  points  of  snow  that  fringed  its  abiding- 
place  on  the  imperishable  spire !" 

Myself  and  my  companions  set  out  on  our  return  to  the  Summit 
House  early  in  the  afternoon,  choosing  this  time  the  ridge  in  preference 
to  the  scrubby  slope.  From  this  we  turned  away,  at  the  end  of  half 
an  hour,  by  an  obscure  path  leading  to  a  boggy  pool,  sunk  in  a  mossy 
hollow  underneath  it,  crossed  the  area  of  scattered  bowlders,  strewn  all 
around  like  the  relics  of  a  petrified  tempest,  and,  filling  our  cups  at  the 
spring,  drank  to  Mount  Adams,  the  paragon  of  mountain  peaks. 

As  we  again  approached  the  brow  of  Mount  Washington  the  sun 
resembled  a  red-hot  globe  of  iron  flying  through  the  west  and  spreading 
a  conflagration  through  the  heavens.  Again  the  colossal  shadow  of  the 
mountain  began  its  stately  ascension  in  the  east.  One  moment  the 
burning  eye  of  the  great  luminary  interrogated  this  phantom,  sprung 
from  the  loins  of  the  hoary  peak.  Then  it  dropped  heavily  down  behind 
the  Green  Mountains,  as  it  has  done  for  thousands  of  years,  the  land- 
scape fading,  fading  into  one  vast,  shadowy  abyss,  out  of  which  arose 
the  star-lit  dome  of  the  august  summit. 


TOURIST'S  APPENDIX. 

PREPARED   FOR  "THE    HEART   OF   THE   WHITE   MOUNTAINS.' 


GEOGRAPHY. — The  White  Mountains  are  in  the  northern  central  part  of  the  State 
of  New  Hampshire.  They  occupy  the  whole  area  of  the  State  between  Maine  and  Ver- 
mont, and  between  Lake  Winnipiseogee  and  the  head -streams  of  the  Connecticut  and 
Androscoggin  rivers. 

Two  principal  chains,  having  a  general  direction  from  south-west  to  north-east,  con- 
stitute this  great  water-shed  of  New  England.  These  are  the  Franconia  and  the  White 
Mountains  proper,  sometimes  called  the  "  Presidential  Range." 

Grouped  on  all  sides  of  the  higher  summits  are  a  great  number  of  inferior  ridges,  among 
which,  as  in  the  Sandwich  Range,  rise  some  very  fine  peaks,  widely  extending  the  moun- 
tainous area,  and  diversifying  it  with  numerous  valleys,  lakes,  and  streams. 

Two  principal  rivers,  the  Saco  and  Merrimack,  flowing  from  these  two  chief  clusters, 
form  the  two  great  valleys  of  the  White  Mountain  system ;  and  by  these  valleys  the  railways 
enter  the  mountains  from  the  seaboard.  Lake  Winnipiseogee,  which  washes  the  southern 
foot  of  the  mountains,  is  also  a  thoroughfare,  as  are  the  valleys  of  the  Connecticut  and 
Androscoggin  rivers. 

DISTANCES. — It  is  430  miles  from  Philadelphia  to  Fabyan's  ;  340  from  New  York, 
rill  Springfield;  190  from  Montreal,  77(j  Newport;  208  Ti'a  Groveton  ;  169  from  Boston,  Z7(? 
North  Conway  (Eastern  R.R.)  ;  208  via  Concord  (B.,  C,  &  M.  R.R.)  ;  91  from  Portland, 
7'i.i  North  Conway  (P.  &  O.  R.R.)  ;  91  from  Portland  to  Gorham  (G.  T.  R.)  ;  199  from  Bos- 
ton to  Gorham,  via  Eastern  and  Grand  Trunk  roads ;  and  206  via  Boston  and  Maine  and 
Grand  Trunk  roads. 

ROUTES. — Procure,  before  starting,  the  official  time-tables  of  the  railroads  running 
to  the  mountains  or  making  direct  connection  with  them,  by  application  to  local  agents,  by 
writing  to  the  ticket-agents  of  the  roads,  or  by  consulting  a  railway  guide-book.  The  roads 
reaching  the  mountains  are — 

From  Washington  :  The  Pennsylvania,  and  New  York  &  New  England. 

From  Philadelphia:  The  Pennsylvania,  and  New  York  &  New  England. 

From  Montreal :  The  Grand  Trunk,  and  The  South-eastern. 

From  Quebec :  The  Grand  Trunk  Railway. 

From  Saratoga :  The  Delaware  &  Hudson  Canal  Co. 

From  New  York :  New  York,  New  Haven,  &  Hartford  (all  rail  via  Springfield,  \M:ite 
River  Junction,  and  Wells  River  to  Fabyan's ;  or  all  rail  via  Springfield,  Worcester,  Nashua, 
and  Concord,  N.  H.;  or  all  rail  via  "  Shore  Line,"  Boston  &  Albany,  or  New  York  &  New 


;20 


TOURIST'S    APPEXDIX. 


England  roads  to  Boston);  or  by  Fall  River,  Norwich,  or  Stonington  "Sound  Lines"  to 
Boston  ;  thence  by  either  of  the  following  railroads  : 

From  Boston:    Eastern  R.R.,  Z7«  Beverly  (i8  miles,  branch  to  Cape  Ann);  Hampton 
(46  miles,  Boar's  Head  and  Rye  Beaches) ;  Portsmouth  (56  miles,  Newcastle  and  Isles  of 


JACOBS    LADDER,  MOl'NT    W  ASH  I  NGTI  iN    RAILWAY. 


Shoals  and  York  Beach);  Kittery  (57  miles);  Wolfborough  Junction  (98  miles,  branch  to 
Lake  Winnipiseogee);  North  Conway  (138  miles;  connects  with  Portland  and  Ogdensburg); 
Intervale  (139  miles);  Glen  Station  (144  miles,  for  Jackson  and  Glen  House);  Crawford's 
(165  miles)  ;  Fabyan's  (169  miles  ;  connects  with  B.,  C,  &  M.  for  Summit  of  Mount  Wash- 
ington, Bethlehem,  Profile  House,  and  Jeffer.son  ;  or  by  same  route  to  Portland,  thence  by 
P.  &  O.  R.R.  to  North  Conway,  or  Grand  Trunk  Railway  to  Gorliam). 

Boston,  Lowell  &  Concord,  and  Boston,  Concord  &  Montreal  Railroads,  via  Lowell 
(26  miles);  Nashua,  Manchester,  Concord  (75  miles);  Plymouth  (123  miles):  Woodsville 
(166  miles,  Wells  Riverj  ;  Littleton  (185  miles,  for  Sugar  Hill);  Wing  Road  (192  miles, 
branch  to  Jefferson);  Bethlehem  (196  miles,  branch  road  to  Profile  House,  also  to  "Maple- 
wood,"  and   Bethlehem    Street)  ;  Twin  Mountain   House,  Fabyan's  (208   miles,  branch   to 


* 


TOi'Ji/ST'S    A  P  PEN  BIX.  321 

Summit  of  Mount  Washington,  217  miles);  connects  at  Fabyan's  witli  P.  &  O.  and  Eastern 
roads  for  Nortii  Conway,  Portland,  and  Boston. 

Boston  &  Maine  R.R.  via  Lawrence  (26  miles)  ;  Haverhill,  Exeter  (50  miles) ;  Dover 
(68  miles)  ;  Rochester  (78  miles) ;  Alton  Bay  (96  miles),  connecting  with  steamer  for  Wolf- 
borough  and  Centre  Harbor,  on  Lake  Winnipiseogee ;  or  by  the  same  road  to  Portland, 
thence  by  P.  &  O.  to  North  Conway  and  Fabyan's,  or  Grand  Trunk  to  Gorham  and  Glen 
House. 

From  Portland:  Portland  &  Ogdensburg  R.R.  via  Sebago  Lake  (i-j  miles);  Fryeburg 
(49  miles);  Conway  Centre,  North  Conway  (60  miles)  ;  Glen  Station  (66  miles,  Jackson  and 
Glen  House);  Bartlett  (72  miles);  Crawford's  (87  miles);  Fabyan's  (91  miles;  connects 
with  B.,  C,  &  M.  R.R.  for  Summit  of  Mount  Washington,  Bethlehem,  Profile  House,  Sugar 
Hill,  Jefferson,  etc.). 

Grand  Trunk  Railway:  Danville  Junction  (27  miles);  Bethel  (70  miles);  Shelburne  (86 
miles)  ;  Gorham  (91  miles,  for  Glen  House). 

A  good  way  to  do  the  mountains  by  rail  is  to  buy  an  e.xcursion-ticket  over  the  route 
entering  on  the  west,  and,  passing  through,  leave  them  by  the  roads  on  the  east  side  via 
Boston  or  Portland,  or  vice  versa.  At  Fabyan's,  where  the  two  gr.eat  routes  meet,  the  trav- 
eller coming  from  either  direction  may  pursue  his  journey  without  delay.  From  Boston 
to  Boston,  Portland  to  Portland,  there  is  continuous  rail  without  going  twice  over  the  same 
line. 

Lake  Winnipiseogee. — At  Alton  Bay,  Wolfborough,  and  Weirs  steamer  is  taken  for  Centre 
Harbor,  at  the  head  of  the  lake.  Here  the  traveller  may  either  take  the  daily  stages  for 
West  Ossipee  (E.  R.R.)  or  steamer  to  Weirs  (B.,  C,  &  M.),  and  thus  be  again  on  the  direct 
rail  routes. 

HOW  TO  CHOOSE  A  LOCATION.— Do  you  wish  a  quiet  retreat,  ofT  the  trav- 
elled routes,  where  you  may  have  rest  and  seclusion,  or  do  you  desire  to  fi.\  yourself  in  a 
position  favorable  to  exploring  the  whole  mountain  region  f 

In  either  case  consult  (i)  some  friend  who  has  visited  the  mountains;  (2),  consult  the 
maps  in  this  volume;  (3),  consult  the  landlord  in  any  place  you  may  fancy  for  a  limited  or 
a  lengthened  residence  ;  (4),  apply  to  the  agents  of  the  Eastern,  Portland,  &  Ogdensburg, 
Boston,  Concord,  &  Montreal,  Boston  &  Maine,  or  Grand  Trunk  Railways,  for  books  or 
folders  containing  a  list  of  the  mountain  hotels  reached  by  their  lines,  and  the  charge  for 
board  by  the  day  and  week.  (The  Eastern,  and  B.,  C,  &  M.  print  revised  lists  every  year, 
for  gratuitous  distribution.) 

Wolfborough,  Weirs,  Centre  Harbor,  and  Sandwich  (all  on  or  near  Lake  Winnipiseo- 
gee) ;  Blair's,  Sanborn's,  Campton  Village,  Thornton,  and  Woodstock,  in  the  Pemigewasset 
Valley;  Tamworth,  Conway  Corner,  Fryeburg,  the  Intervale  (North  Conway),  Jackson,  the 
Glen  House,  Bethel  (Me.),  Shelburne,  Randolph,  East  Jefferson,  Jefferson  Hill,  Lancaster, 
Littleton.  Franconia,  Sugar  Hill,  Haverhill,  and  Newbury  (Vt.) — all  come  w^ithin  the  category 
first  named  ;  while  the  second  want  will  be  supplied  at  such  points  as  North  Conway,  Craw- 
ford's, Fabyan's,  Twin  Mountain  House,  Bethlehem,  and  the  Profile  House.  North  Con- 
way and  Bethlehem  are  the  keys  to  the  whole  mountain  region.  Fabyan's  and  the  Glen 
House  are  the  proper  points  from  which  to  ascend  Mount  Washington. 

To  aid  in  locating  these  places  on  the  map,  refer  constantly  to  the  Index  at  the  end  of 
the  volume. 

27 


^22  TO  UR  IS  T  'S    A  PPE  ND IX. 

Leaving  Boston  or  Portland  in  the  morning,  any  of  the  points  named  may  be  reached 
in  from  four  to  eight  hours. 

HINTS  FOR  TOURISTS. — Select  your  destination,  if  possible,  in  advance  ;  and 
if  you  require  apartments,  telegraph  to  the  hotel  where  you  mean  to  stop,  giving  the  num- 
ber of  persons  in  your  party,  thus  avoiding  the  disappointment  of  arriving,  at  the  end  of  a 
long  journey,  at  an  over-crowded  hotel. 

Should  you  fi.\  upon  a  particular  locality  for  a  long  or  short  stay,  write  to  one  Cor  more) 
of  the  landlords  for  terms,  etc. ;  and  if  his  house  is  off  the  line  of  railway,  inform  him  of  the 
day  and  train  you  mean  to  take,  so  that  he  may  meet  you  with  a  carriage  at  the  nearest 
station.     Hut  if  you  do  not  go  upon  the  day  named,  remember  to  notify  the  landlord. 


U.  S.  METEOROLOGICAL   STATION,  MOUNT   WASHINGTON,  IN   SUMMER. 


Always  take  some  warm  woollen  clothing  (inside  and  outside)  for  mountain  ascensions. 
It  is  unsafe  to  be  without  it  in  any  season,  as  the  nights  are  usually  cool  even  in  mid- 
summer. 

From  the  middle  of  June  to  the  middle  of  October  is  the  season  of  mountain  travel. 
The  best  views  are  obtained  in  June,  September,  and  October.     From  tlie  middle  of  Sep- 


TOURIST'S    APFENDIX.  323 

tembcr  to  the  middle  of  October  the  air  is  pure  and  invigorating,  the  mountain  forests  are 
then  in  a  blaze  of  autumnal  splendor,  the  cascades  are  finer,  and  out-of-door  jaunts  are 
less  fatiguing  than  in  July  and  August. 

Should  you  wish  merely  to  make  a  rapid  tour  of  the  mountain  region,  it  will  be  best  so 
to  arrange  your  route  before  starting  that  the  first  day  will  bring  you  where  there  is  some- 
thing to  be  seen,  to  a  comfortable  hotel,  and  from  which  your  journey  may  be  continued 
with  an  economy  of  time  and  money. 

The  three  journeys  described  in  this  volume  will  enable  you  to  see  all  that  is  most 
desirable  to  be  seen  ;  but  the  excellent  facilities  for  traversing  the  mountains  render  it 
immaterial  whether  these  routes  are  precisely  followed,  taken  in  their  reverse  order,  or 
adopted  as  a  general  plan,  witii  such  modifications  as  the  tourist's  time  or  inclination  may 
suggest. 

Upon  arri\-ing  at  his  destination  the  traveller  naturally  desires  to  use  his  time  to  the 
best  advantage  possible.  But  he  is  ignorant  how  to  do  this.  "What  shall  I  do?"  ' '^^'here 
shall  I  go?"  are  the  two  questions  that  confront  him.  Let  us  suppose  him  arrived,  first,  at 
North  Conway. 

As  he  stands  gazing  up  the  Saco  Valley,  Moat  Mountain  is  on  his  left,  Kearsarge  at  his 
right,  and  Mount  \^'ashington  in  front.  (Refer  to  the  Chapter  and  Inde.x  articles  on  North 
Conway.)  The  high  cliffs  on  the  side  of  Moat  are  called  the  Ledges.  This  glorious  view 
may  be  improved  by  going  a  mile  up  the  railroad,  or  highway,  to  the  Intervale.  The 
Ledges  contain  the  local  celebrities.  Taking  a  carriage,  or  walking,  one  may  visit  them  in 
an  afternoon,  seeing  in  turn  Echo  Lake,  the  Devil's  Den,  the  Cathedral,  and  Diana's  Baths. 
The  picturesque  bits  of  river,  meadow,  and  mountain  seen  going  and  returning  will  make 
the  way  seem  short,  and  are  certain  to  detain  the  artistic  traveller.  Artists'  Falls,  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  valley,  will  repay  a  visit,  if  the  stream  is  in  good  condition.  Artists' 
Brook,  on  which  these  falls  are,  runs  from  the  hills  east  of  the  village.  A  carriage-road 
leads  to  the  Artists'  Falls  House,  from  which  a  short  walk  brings  one  to  the  falls.  This 
e.xcursion  will  require  not  more  than  two  hours.  Then  there  are  the  drives  to  Kearsarge 
village,  under  the  mountain,  and  back  by  the  Intervale  ;  to  Jackson,  over  Thorn  Hill,  and 
back  by  Goodrich  Falls  (three  to  four  hours  each)  ;  to  Bartlett  Bowlder,  by  the  west,  and 
back  by  the  east  side  of  the  valley ;  to  Fryeburg  and  Mount  Chocorua — the  last  two  re- 
quiring each  half  a  day  at  least.  The  ascent  of  Kearsarge  (from  Kearsarge  village)  or  of 
the  Moats  (from  Diana's  Baths)  each  demands  a  day  to  itself.  But  by  starting  early  in  the 
morning  a  good  climber  may  ascend  and  descend  Kearsarge,  getting  back  to  the  village 
by  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 

At  the  Intervale  he  can  easily  repeat  all  these  experiences,  as  this  is  a  suburb  of  North 
Conway.  Let  him  take  his  first  stroll  over  the  meadows  to  the  river,  or  among  the  grand 
old  pines  in  the  forest  near  the  railway  station,  while  preparing  for  more  extended  ex- 
cursions. 

At  Glen  Station. — \Miile  waiting  for  the  luggage  to  be  put  on,  if  the  day  is  perfectly  clear, 
the  traveller,  by  going  up  the  track  a  few  rods,  to  the  bridge  over  the  Ellis,  may  get  a 
glimpse  of  the  summit  of  Mount  Washington,  with  the  hotel  upon  the  apex  ;  also  of  Carter 
Notch.  On  the  way  to  Jackson  he  will  pass  over  Goodrich  Falls  by  a  bridge.  He  should 
not  fail  to  remark  the  fine  cliffs  of  Iron  Mountain,  at  his  left  hand,  before  entering  the  \'il- 
lage.     Should  he  be  en  route  iox  the  Glen  House,  let  him  be  on  the  lookout  for  the  Giant's 


^24  TOURIST'S    ATTEND IX. 

Stairs,  on  the  left,  after  leaving  Jackson,  and  then  for  the  grand  view  of  Pinkham  Notch, 
with  Mount  Washington  at  the  left,  about  four  miles  beyond  Jackson.  The  summit  of 
Spruce  Hill — the  scene  of  the  highway  robbery  in  i88i — is  the  top  of  the  long  rise  beyond 
the  bridge  over  Ellis  River. 

At  yackson  we  have  moved  eight  miles  nearer  Mount  Washington,  in  the  direction  of 
the  (;len  House  (12  miles)  and  Gorham  (20  miles),  and  also  toward  the  Carter  Notch, 
distant  from  the  village  9  miles.  The  e.xcursions  back  to  North  Conway  are  similar  to 
those  described  from  that  place.  The  first  thing  to  do  here  is  to  stroll  up  the  Wildcat,  and 
pass  an  hour  or  two  among  the  falls  on  this  stream,  which  begin  at  the  village.  A  walk  or 
drive  up  this  valley  to  Fernald's  Farm,  and  back  by  the  opposite  side,  or  over  Thorn  Hill, 
are  two  tempting  half-day  excursions.  In  an  hour  one  may  walk  to  Goodrich  Falls  (road 
to  Glen  Station)  and  back  to  the  village.  He  may  start  after  breakfast,  and  drive  to  Glen 
Ellis  Falls  (road  to  Glen  House),  eight  miles,  returning  to  the  hotel  for  dinner;  or,  lunch- 
ing at  Glen  Ellis,  go  on  one  mile  farther  to  the  Crystal  Cascade ;  then,  dining  at  the  Glen 
House  (3  miles),  return  at  leisure.  But  it  is  a  mistake  to  take  two  such  pieces  of  water 
in  one  day.  The  pedestrian  whose  base  is  Jackson,  and  who  makes  this  trip,  should  pass 
the  night  at  the  Glen  House  and  return  by  the  Carter  Notch,  the  distance  being  about  the 
same  as  by  the  highwav.  But  he  should  never  try  this  alone,  for  fear  of  a  disabling  acci- 
dent. Or  he  may  take  the  Glen  House  stage  at  Jackson  early  in  the  afternoon,  and,  letting 
it  drop  him  at  Glen  Ellis,  make  his  own  way  to  the  hotel  (4  miles)  on  foot,  after  a  visit 
to  the  falls.  Apply  to  Mr.  Osgood,  the  veteran  guide,  at  the  Glen  House,  for  services,  or 
directions  how  to  enter  the  Carter  Notch  from  the  Glen  House  side ;  and  to  Jock  Davis, 
who  lives  at  the  head  of  the  Wildcat  Valley,  if  going  in  from  the  Jackson  side. 

Ladies  who  are  accustomed  to  walking  can  reach  Carter  Notch  with  a  little  help  now 
and  then  from  the  gentlemen.  But  the  fatigue  of  going  and  returning  on  the  same  day 
would  be  too  great.  A  party  could  enter  the  Notch  in  the  afternoon,  pass  the  night  in 
Davis's  comfortable  cabin,  and  return  the  ne.xt  morning.  The  path  in  is  much  easier 
and  plainer  from  the  Jackson  than  from  the  Glen  House  side  ;  but  there  is  no  difficulty 
about  keeping  either.  Davis  will  take  up  everything  necessary  for  camping  out,  except 
food,  which  may  be  procured  at  your  hotel  before  starting.  'I'here  is  plenty  of  water  in 
the  Notch. 

At  the  Glen  House  one  may  finish  the  afternoon  by  walking  back  a  mile  on  the  Jackson 
road  to  the  Emerald  Pool ;  or,  if  he  is  in  the  vein,  go  one  mile  farther  on  to  Thompson's 
I'alls,  and,  ascending  to  the  top,  look  over  the  forest  into  Tuckerman's  Ravine.  The  Crys- 
tal Cascade  (3  miles)  and  Glen  Ellis  (4  miles)  from  the  hotel,  ought  to  occupy  half  a 
day,  but  three  hours  (driving)  will  suffice,  if  one  is  in  a  hurry.  The  drive  to  Jackson,  or 
march  into  the  Notch,  are  just  noted  under  Jackson.  To  go  into  Tuckerman's  Ravine  by 
the  Crystal  Cascade,  or  by  Thonijjson's  Path  (Mount  Washington  carriage-road),  will  take 
a  whole  day.  Ladies  have  been  into  Tuckerman's  ;  but  the  trial  cannot  be  recommended 
except  for  the  most  vigorous  and  courageous.  The  Appalachian  Club  has  a  camp  near 
Hermit  Lake,  where  a  party  going  into  the  ravine  in  the  afternoon  may  pass  a  comfortable 
night,  ascend  to  the  Snow  Arch  in  the  morning,  and  return  to  the  hotel  for  dinner. 

A  three-mile  walk  on  the  Gorham  road,  crossing  the  Peabody  River  to  the  Copp  Farm- 
house, gives  a  view  of  the  celebrated  "  Imp  "  profile,  on  the  top  of  the  opposite  mountain. 
This  walk  is  an  affair  of  two  hours  and  a  half.     (See  art.  "Imp"  in  Inde.x.)     The  Garnet 


TO  UR  IS  T  'S    A  PPE  ND IX. 


325 


Tool  (one  mile  from  the  hotel)  may  be  taken  on  the  way.  Or,  for  a  short  and  interesting; 
stroll,  go  down  this  road  a  half-mile  to  where  the  Great  Gulf  opens  wide  before  you  its 
immense  wall  of  mountains.  The  carriage -road  to  the  summit  requires  four  hours  for 
the  ascent  by  stage  ;  a  good  climber  can  do  it  on  foot  in  about  the  same  time.  Should  a 
storm  overtake  him  above  the  woods,  he  can  find  shelter  in  the  Halfway  House,  just  at 
the  edcre  of  the  forest. 


INTERIOR   UF    THE   iMETEOKOLi  IIJICAL   STATION,  MOUNT   WASHINGTON. 


At  Crawford's  one  can  saunter  into  the  woods  at  the  left  of  the  hotel,  and  enjoy  himself 
in  the  sylvan  retreat,  "  Idlewild  ;"  or,  going  down  the  road,  ascend  the  Elephant's  Head  by 
a  path  turning  in  at  the  left  (sign-board),  obtaining  the  view  down  the  Notch  ;  or,  continu- 
ing on  a  short  distance,  enter  and  examine  the  Gate  of  the  Notch.  All  these  objects  are 
in  full  view  from  the  hotel.  Other  rambles  of  an  hour  are  to  Gibbs'  Falls,  entering  the 
woods  at  the  left  of  the  hotel  (guide-board),  or,  crossing  the  bridge  over  the  railroad  track 
on  the  right,  to  Beecher's  Cascades.  The  ascent  of  Mount  Willard  (3  miles)  should  on 
no  account  be  omitted.  Good  carriage-road  all  the  way,  and  vehicles  from  the  hotel.  The 
celebrated  Crawford  Trail  to  the  Summit  of  Mount  Washington,  the  scene  of  many  e.vploits, 
begins  in  the  grove  at  the  left  of  this  hotel.     'I'he  distance  is  fully  nine  miles,  and  si.x  or 

\ 


326 


TO  URIST'S    APPENDIX. 


seven  hours  will  be  none  too  many  for  the  jaunt.  Four  intervening  mountains,  Clinton, 
Pleasant,  Franklin,  and  Monroe,  are  crossed.  There  is  a  shelter-hut  in  the  woods  near  the 
summit  of  Clinton. 

At  Fabyan's. — Three  or  four  hours  may  be  profitably  spent  on  Mount  Deception,  opposite 
the  hotel.  The  first  summit  is  as  much  as  one  would  care  to  undertake  in  an  afternoon,  to 
get  the  extended  and  magnificent  view  of  the  great  range  at  sunset.  Opposite  the  hotel  is 
a  cosy  little  cottage,  kept  open  by  the  railroads  for  the  use  of  travellers,  and  to  give  them 
information  respecting  routes,  hotels,  distances,  fares,  etc.  The  Upper  Ammonoosuc  Falls 
(3^  miles)  are  well  worth  a  visit.  They  are  on  the  Old  Turnpike  to  the  base  of  Mount 
Washington.     The  traveller  has  now  at  command  all  the  important  points  in  the  moun- 


METEOROLOGICAL   ST.-\TION,  MOUNT   WASHINGTON,  IN   WINTER. 


tains.  He  is  9  miles  from  the  .Summit,  4  from  Crawford's,  29  from  North  Conway,  13  from 
Bethlehem,  22  from  the  I'rofile,  and  18  from  JefTerson — all  reached  by  rail  in  one  or  two 
hours. 

At  Bitlihhcni. — If  the  tourist  locates  himself  at  the  "  Maplewood,"  the  walk   up   the 
mountain  to  the  Observatory,  or  to  Craft's  Ledge,  at  sunset,  or  to  the  village  (i^^  miles),  or 


TOURIST'S   APPENDIX.  327 

down  the  Whitefield  road  to  The  Hollow,  is  a  good  introduction.  At  "The  Street"  he  will 
find  the  busiest  thoroughfare  in  the  mountains,  leading  him  on  to  a  beautiful  panorama  of 
the  Ammonoosuc  Valley,  with  Littleton  in  its  lap ;  or,  ascending  the  old  Profile  House  road 
above  the  Sinclair  House  for  a  mile,  will  see  the  great  Franconia  mountains  from  the  best 
view-point.  Bethlehem  is  9  miles  from  the  I'rofile  House,  13  from  Fabyan's,  17  from  Craw- 
ford's, 42  from  North  Conway,  15  from  Jefferson,  and  22  from  the  Summit. 

At  Profile  House. — If  you  arrive  by  rail  via  Bethlehem,  you  have  crossed  the  broad 
flank  and  great  ravine  of  Mount  Lafayette  to  the  shores  of  Echo  Lake,  a  mile  from  the 
hotel.  But  the  opposite  side  of  this  lake  is  a  more  eligible  site  for  views  of  the  surround- 
ing mountains  ;  and  the  summit  of  Bald  Mountain,  at  its  north  end,  is  still  better.  From 
the  long  piazza  of  the  Profile  House  the  great  Notch  mountains  close  in  toward  the  south. 
Cannon  Mountain  is  on  your  right,  with  the  peculiar  rocks  giving  it  this  name  thrust  out 
from  the  highest  ridge  in  full  view.  Tire  woods  at  the  foot  of  this  mountain,  filling  the  pass 
in  front  of  you,  conceal  the  beautiful  Profile  Lake,  the  twin-sister  of  Echo  Lake.  The  enor- 
mous rock  at  your  left  is  Eagle  Cliff,  a  spur  of  Mount  Lafayette,  the  mountain  being  as- 
cended on  the  south  side  of  this  cliff.  Improve  the  first  hour  of  leisure  by  walking  directly 
down  the  road  to  Profile  Lake.  In  a  few  minutes  you  will  reach  the  shore  near  a  rustic 
arbor  (guide-board),  furnished  with  seats,  and  here  you  command  the  best  view  of  the  re- 
nowned "  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain."  Boats  may  be  had  here  for  a  sail  upon  the  lake. 
Return  to  the  hotel  by  the  path  through  the  woods.  Walk  next  up  the  pass  one  mile  to 
Echo  Lake  (boats  and  fishing-gear  at  the  boat-house) ;  or,  extending  your  jaunt  as  far  as 
Bald  Mountain,  obtain,  by  following  the  old  path  through  the  woods  at  the  right,  the  best 
observation  of  the  pass  from  the  north.  The  trip  to  the  Flume  House  (including  the  Basin, 
Pool,  and  Flume)  is  next  in  order,  and  will  occupy  a  half  day,  although  the  distance  is  only 
six  miles,  and  the  road  excellent.  If  the  forenoon  is  taken,  a  party  can  either  return  to 
the  hotel  for  dinner  or  dine  well  at  the  Flume  House.  The  Pool  is  reached  by  a  path  half 
a  mile  long,  entering  the  woods  opposite  the  Flume  House.  It  will  take  an  hour  to  drive 
to  the  Flume  ;  and  an  hour  to  go  into  the  chasm  itself  and  return  is  little  enough ;  allow- 
ing another  hour  for  the  Pool  makes  four  hours  for  the  excursion. 

The  ascent  of  Mount  Lafayette  (3 J  miles)  demands  three  to  four  hours.  Saddle-horses 
can  be  procured  at  the  hotel.  Those  unwilling  to  undertake  the  whole  climb  may,  by  as- 
cending Eagle  Cliff  (i  mile  on  same  path),  secure  a  grand  view  of  the  Notch  and  lakes,  the 
Profile,  the  ravines,  and  the  Pemigewasset  Valley.  A  stage  leaves  the  Profile  House  every 
morning  for  Plymouth,  connecting  with  trains  for  Boston  and  New  York,  and  permitting 
the  tourist  to  enjoy  the  beauties  of  the  Pemigewasset  Valley.  But  it  is  better  to  ascend 
this  valley. 

At  the  Flume  House  (refer  to  the  preceding  article). — It  is  a  comparatively  easy  climb 
of  an  hour  and  a  half  to  the  top  of  Mount  Pemigewasset,  behind  the  hotel.  See,  from  the 
hotel,  the  outline  of  the  mountain  ridge  opposite,  called  Washington  Lying  in  State. 

At  Jefferson. — The  branch  railway  from  Whitefield  (B.,  C,  &  M.  R.R.)  leaves  its  pas- 
sengers about  three  miles  from  the  cluster  of  hotels  and  boarding-houses  called  Jefferson 
Hill,  or  five  from  East  Jefferson  (E.  A.  Crawford's,  Highland,  or  Mount  Adams  House) ; 
but  carriages  are  usually  in  waiting  for  all  these  houses.  The  walks  and  drives  up  and 
down  this  valley  are  numerous  and  interesting,  especially  so  in  the  direction  of  Mount 
Adams  and  Randolph  Hill,  Cherry  Mountain  and  Lancaster.     The  trip  over  Cherry  Moun- 


328  TOURIST'S   APPENDIX. 

tain,  reaching  Fabyan's  (13  miles)  by  sunset,  or  from  Fabyan's,  reaching  Jefferson  at  this 
hour,  is  a  memorable  experience  of  mountain  beauty.  Excursions  to  Mount  ^Vashington, 
Profile  House,  Glen  House,  or  Gorham,  demand  a  day.  The  ascent  of  Starr  King,  Owl's 
Head,  Ravine  of  the  Cascades,  King's  Ravine,  or  Mount  Adams  are  the  pieces  tie  resistance 
for  this  locality. 

ITINERARY  OF  A  "WALKING  TOUR.— Two  weeks  of  fine  weather  will  en- 
able a  good  pedestrian  to  traverse  the  mountains  from  Plymouth  to  North  Conway,  or  vice 
7'ersa,  following  the  great  highw'ays  throughout  the  whole  journey,  and  giving  time  to  see  what 
is  on  the  route.  Good  hotel  accommodation  will  be  found  at  the  end  of  each  day.  Should 
bad  weather  unsettle  his  plans,  he  will  nearly  always  be  able  to  avail  himself  of  regular 
stage  or  railway  conveyance  for  a  less  or  greater  distance.  Thus  :  First  day,  Plymouth  to 
Woodstock  (dine  at  Sanborn's,  West  Campton),  16  miles;  second  day,  Flume  House  (visit- 
ing Flume  and  Pool),  8  miles ;  third  day.  Profile  House  (visiting  Basin  and  "  Old  Man  "), 
5^  miles  ;  fourth  day,  Bethlehem  {via  Echo  Lake  and  Franconia),  9  miles  ;  fifth  day.  White- 
field,  8  miles;  sixth  day.  East  Jefferson,  13  miles;  seventh  day.  Glen  House,  14  miles; 
eighth  day,  for  vicinity  of  Glen  House  ;  ninth  day.  Summit  of  Mount  Washington  by  car- 
riage-road, 8  miles;  tenth  day,  descent  by  mountain  railway  to  Crawford's,  13  miles;  elev- 
enth day,  through  the  Notch  to  Bartlett,  13  miles  ;  twelfth  day,  Jackson  and  vicinity,  9  miles; 
thirteenth  day.  North  Conway,  8  miles.     Total,  124  miles. 

Advice  for  Climbers. — Don't  hurry  when  on  a  level  road — keep  your  strength  for  the 
ascent.  Always  take  the  long  route  up  a  mountain,  if  it  be  the  easier  one.  Be  careful 
where  you  plant  the  foot  in  gullied  trails  or  on  icy  ledges — a  sprain  is  a  serious  mattL-r  if 
you  are  alone.  Carry  in  your  pocket  a  flask,  fitted  with  a  tumbler  or  cup  ;  matches  that 
will  ignite  in  the  wind,  half  a  dozen  cakes  of  pitch-kindling,  a  good  glass,  and  a  luncheon  ; 
in  your  hand  a  stout  walking-stick  ;  and  upon  your  feet  shoes  that  can  be  trusted — none 
of  your  gimcracks — but  broad-soled  ones,  shod  with  steel  nails.  On  a  long  march  a  rubber 
overcoat,  a  haversack,  and  an  umbrella  will  be  needed.  Cold  tea  slakes  thirst  more  effect- 
ually than  water ;  but  when  you  are  exposed  to  wet  and  cold  something  stronger  will  be 
found  useful.  Should  you  have  a  palpitation  of  the  heart,  or  an  inclination  to  vertigo,  do 
not  climb  at  all.  Take  quiet  rambles  instead.  My  word  for  it,  they  are  better  for  you  than 
scaling  breathless  ascents  or  looking  down  over  dizzy  precipices.  If  you  feel  nausea,  stop 
at  once  until  you  recover  from  it.  If  caught  on  the  Crawford  trail  between  Mounts  Clin- 
ton and  Washington,  iv  back  to  the  hut  on  the  first-named  mountain. 

Akwspapers  for  lourists,  M  Bethlehem  {T/ie  Ec/io)  and  on  the  Summit  (.Imoiig  the 
Clouds)  are  published  during  the  season  of  travel,  giving  hotel  arrivals,  information  con- 
cerning rail  and  stage  routes,  excursions,  and  whatever  may  be  of  interest  to  the  summer 
population  in  general. 

Telegraphic  and  telephone  communication  may  be  had  at  all  the  principal  hotels  and 
railway-stations. 

The  Appalachian  Mountain  Club  prints  every  year  a  periodical  made  up  of  scientific 
and  literary  contributions  from  its  members.     Address  the  club  at  Boston. 

Trout, pickerel  and  black  bass  are  found  in  all  the  mountain  waters.  The  State  stocks 
the  ponds  and  streams  with  trout,  bass,  and  salmon  from  its  breeding-houses  at  Plymouth. 
Fishing  legally  begins  May  i.  There  is  good  trout-fishing  on  Swift  River  (.\lbany),  with 
Conway  for  head-quarters.     P'roni  Jackson,  or  Glen  House,  the  Wildcat  and  Kllis  are  both 


TOUHJST'S   APPENDIX.  329 

good  trout  streams;  so  are  Nineteen-Mile  Brook  and  the  West  Branch  of  I'eabody  ;  but 
the  Wild  River  region  (from  Shelburne,  Glen  House,  or  Jackson)  affords  better  sport, 
because  less  visited.  To  go  in  from  Jackson  or  Glen  House  a  guide  will  be  necessary, 
and  Davis,  of  Jackson,  is  a  good  one.  From  Jefferson  and  Randolph  the  upper  waters 
of  the  Moose,  and  Israel's  River  (especially  in  the  Mount  Jefferson  ravine),  are  fished 
with  good  success.  E.  A.  Crawford,  of  East  Jefferson,  knows  the  best  spots.  From  Bart- 
lett  there  should  be  good  fisliing  on  -Sawyer's  River,  above  the  Livermore  mills.  Con- 
sult Frank  George,  the  veteran  landlord  of  the  Bartlett  House.  From  Crawford's  the 
best  fishing-ground  is  Ethan's  Pond,  behind  Mount  Willey.  At  Franconia  the  writer  has 
seen  some  fine  strings  brought  from  the  Coppermine  Brook  (back  of  Mount  Kinsman). 
Fair  fishing  may  also  be  had  on  Lafayette  Brook  —  ask  Charles  Edson,  of  the  Edson 
House.  Profile  Lake  is  stocked  with  trout  for  the  benefit  of  guests  of  the  hotel.  The 
upper  streams  of  the  Pemigewasset  are  all  good  fishing-ground.  Apply  to  Mr.  D.  P.  Pol- 
lard, North  Woodstock,  or  Merrill  Greeley,  Waterville.  The  houses  of  both  are  resorted  to 
by  e.xperienced  fishermen  who  track  the  East  Branch  or  Mad  River  tributaries.  Pickerel 
and  bass  are  caught  in  Lakes  Winnipiseogee,  Squam,  Chocorua,  Ossipee,  and  Silver, 
besides  scores  of  ponds  lying  cliiefly  in  the  lake  region. 

N.B. — Those  going  exclusi\ely  to  fish  should  go  early  in  the  season  for  the  best  sport. 

Guides. — The  landlords  will  either  accompany  you  or  procure  a  suitable  person. 

Camping  Out. — A  wall  tent  is  preferable,  but  two  persons  get  along  comfortably  in  one 
of  the  "A"  pattern.  Get  one  with  the  fly,  which  can  be  spread  behind  the  tent,  thus 
giving  an  additional  room,  in  which  the  cooking  and  eating  may  be  done  under  cover. 
Set  up  your  tent  where  there  is  natural  drainage — where  the  surface  water  will  run  off 
during  wet  weather.  Dig  a  shallow  trench  around  it,  on  the  outside,  for  this  purpose, 
and  if  you  can  obtain  them,  lay  boards  for  a  floor.  A  kerosene-oil  stove,  with  its  uten- 
sils, folding  cot-bed,  camp-chairs,  and  mess-chest,  containing  dishes  (tin  is  best),  constitute 
a  complete  outfit,  to  be  reduced  according  to  convenience  or  pleasure.  To  make  a  woods- 
man's camp,  first  set  up  two  crotched  posts  five  feet  high,  and  six  or  eight  apart  (accord- 
ing to  number).  On  these  lay  a  pole.  From  this  pole  three  or  four  others  extend  to  the 
ground.  Then  cut  brush  or  bark  for  the  roof  and  sides,  and  build  your  fire  in  front.  For 
a  camp  of  this  sort  a  hatchet  and  packet  of  matches  only  are  necessary.  But  always  pitch 
your  encampment  in  the  vicinity  of  wood  and  water. 

Mount  Washington  Railway. — Length,  from  base  to  summit,  3  miles.  Rise  in  the  three 
miles,  3,625  feet.  Steepest  grade,  13+  inches  in  three  feet,  or  1980  feet  to  the  mile.  Begun 
in  1866;  completed  in  1869. 

Alouiit  Washington  Carriage-road. — Length,  8  miles.  Average  grade,  one  foot  in  eight. 
Steepest  grade,  one  foot  in  six.     Begun  in  1855  ;  finished  in  1861. 

Mount  Washington  Signal  Station. — The  Summit  was  first  occupied  for  scientific  pur- 
poses in  the  winter  of  i87o-'7i.  Since  then  it  has  been  attached  to  the  Weather  Bureau 
at  Washington,  and  occupied  by  men  detailed  from  the  United  States  Signal  Corps,  the 
men  volunteering  for  the  service. 

ALTITUDES.  —  The  following  list  of  altitudes  of  the  more  important  and  well- 
known  points  has  been  compiled  from  the  publications  of  the  Geological  Survey  of  New 
Hampshire  and  of  the  Appalachian  Mountain  Club.  The  figures  in  heavy-face  type  are 
the  results  either  of  actual  levelling  or  of  trigonometrical  survey,  while  the  remainder  de- 


330  TOURIST'S    APPENDIX. 

pend  upon  barometrical  measurement.     Where  the  mean  of  two  not  widely-differing  au- 
thorities is  given,  the  fact  is  denoted  by  the  letter  '•;«  "  preceding  the  figures  : 


MOL-.NTAIN    SUMMITS. 

Adams m  57S5 

Ascutney  (Vermont) 3iSf) 

Black  (Sandwich  Dome) 3999 

Boott's  Spur 5524 

Cannon 3850 

Carrigain in  465 1 

Carter  Dome m  4S27 

Chocorua 354° 

Clay 5553 

Clinton m  4315 

Crawford 3134 

Giant's  Stairs 3500 

Gunstock 2394 

Iron about  2000 

Jefferson 5714 

Kearsarge,  S.  (Merrimack  County) 2943 

Kearsarge,  N.  (Carroll  County) 3251 

Lafayette 5259 

Madison m  5350 

Moat  (North  peak) 3200 

Monadnock m   3177 

Monroe m  5375 

Moosilauk 4811 

Moriah 4653 

Osceola m  4408 

Passaconnaway 4200 

Percy  (North  peak) 3336 

Pleasant  (Great  range) m  476S 

Pleasant  (Maine) , 2021 

Starr  King m  3S72 

Twin about  5000 

Washington 6293 

Webster 4000 

Whiteface 4007 

Willey 4300 


VILLAGES   ANU    HOTELS. 

Bartlett  (Upper) 660 

Bethlehem  (Sinclair  House) m  1454 

Franconia 921 

Crawford  House 1899 

Fabyan          "       1571 

Flume           "       1431 

Glen               "       1632 

Gorham 812 

Jackson 759 

Jefferson  Hill '44^' 

Jefferson  Highlands  (Mt.  Adams  House) 1(148 

Lancaster 870 

North  Conway 521 

Plymouth 473 

Profde  House 1974 

Sugar  Hill  (Post  Office) 1351 

Waterville  (Greeley's  Hotel) m  1 544 

Willey  House 1323 

NOTCHES. 

Carter  Notch 3240 

Cherry  Mt.  Road  (summit) m  21S0 

Crawford  or  White  Mt.  Notch 1914 

Dixville  Notch 1S31 

Franconia  Notch m  2015 

Pinkham  Notcli  (south  of  Glen  House) 201S 

Carrigain  Notch 2465 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

Ammonoosuc  Sta.  (base  of  Mt.  Washington) . .  2668 
Camp  of  Appalachian  Mountain  Club,  on   the 

Mt.  Adams  path 3307 

Echo  Lake  (Franconia) m  1928 

Lake  of  the  Clouds 5053 

Lake  Winnipiseogee SOO 


Distant  Points  Visible  f)-om  Mount  ]]'ashington  (taken  from  "  Appalachia  ").  —  Mount 
Megantic  (Canada),  86  miles,  seen  between  Jefferson  and  Adams;  Mount  Carmel,  65  miles, 
just  over  Mount  Adams  ;  Saddleback,  60  miles,  head  of  Rangely  Lakes  ;  Mount  Abraham, 
68  miles,  N.,  47°  E. ;  Ebene  Mountain,  135  miles,  vicinity  of  Moosehead  Lake  (rarely  seen, 
even  with  a  telescope);  Mount  Blue,  57  miles,  near  Farmington,  Me.;  Sebago  Lake,  43 
miles,  over  Mount  Doublehead  ;  Portland,  67  miles,  over  Lake  Sebago ;  Mount  Agamenti- 
cus,  79  miles,  between  Kearsarge  and  Moat  Mountains  ;  Isles  of  Shoals,  96  miles,  to  the 
right  of  Agamenticus  (rarely  seen);  Mount  Monadnock,  104  miles,  between  Carrigain  and 
Sandwich  Dome;  Mount  Ascutney  (Vt.),  81  miles,  S.,  45°  W. ;  Killington  Peaks  (near  Rut- 
land, Vt.),  88  miles,  on  the  horizon  between  Moosilauk  and  Lincoln  ;  Camel's  Hump  (Vt.), 
78  miles,  over  Bethlehem  Street;  Mount  Whiteface  (.Adirondack  chain,  N.Y.),  130  miles, 
over  the  right  slope  of  Camel's  Hump  ;  Mount  Mansfield  (highest  of  Green  Mountains).  77 


TOURIST'S    APPENDIX.  331 

miles,  between  Twin  Mountain  House  and  Mount  Deception ;  Mount  Wacluisctt  (Mass.), 
126  miles,  is  also  visible  under  favorable  conditions,  just  to  the  right  of  Whiteface  (N.  H.). 

MOUNTAIN  PATHS.  [Those  with  an  asterisk  (*)  were  built  by  the  Appalachian 
Mountain  Club.]  Chocorua. — There  are  three  or  four  paths.  The  best  leads  from  the 
Hammond  Farm,  2I  miles  from  the  Chocorua  Lake  House,  and  14  miles  from  North  Con- 
way. The  ascent,  as  far  as  the  foot  of  the  final  peak,  is  feasible  for  ladies.  From  this 
point  the  easiest  way  is  to  flank  the  peak  to  the  left  until  an  old  watercourse  is  reached, 
which  may  be  followed  nearly  to  the  summit. 

*Moat. — An  old  path  leads  from  the  Swift  River  road  to  the  summit  of  the  South 
Teak.  Another,  from  the  clearings  on  an  old  road  which  extends  along  the  base  of  the 
South  Peak,  leads  to  the  top  of  the  middle  ridge ;  but  the  best  path  for  tourists  is  the  one 
from  Diana's  Baths,  on  Cedar  Brook,  following  the  stream  to  the  foot  of  the  ridge,  thence 
over  the  ridge  to  the  summit  of  the  North  Peak.  Path  well  made,  and  plainly  marked 
with  signs  and  cairns  ;  about  3:1  miles  in  length. 

*  Middle  Mountain,  A'ort/i  Comcay.  —  Beginning  at  the  ice-ponds  near  Artists'  Falls 
House,  the  path  extends  around  the  base  of  Peaked  Mountain,  thence  to  the  bare  ledges 
which  reach  to  the  summit.  Distance,  if  miles.  Path  well  marked,  and  the  view  very 
beautiful. 

Kearsargc,  N'orth  Conway. — A  bridle-path  starts  from  a  farm-house  near  Kearsarge  Vil- 
lage, and  extends  to  the  summit.     Distance,  nearly  3  iniles.     Route  plain,  and  not  difficult. 

*Mount  Barflctt. — The  path  starts  near  the  Pequawket  House,  Lower  Bartlett,  follows 
old  logging  roads  for  some  distance,  runs  thence  directly  to  the  summit.  From  the  summit 
the  path  extends  along  the  ridge  until  it  joins  the  bridle-path  to  Kearsarge. 

*Carrigain. — The  route  leads  from  the  mills  at  Livermore,  which  are  reached  by  a  road 
leaving  the  P.  &  O.  R.R.  at  Livermore  Station.  From  the  mills,  logging  roads  are  followed 
— crossing  Duck  Pond  and  Carrigain  Brooks — to  the  base  ;  thence  by  a  plain  path  through 
a  fine  forest  to  "  Burnt  Hat  Ridge,"  from  which  it  is  only  a  short  distance  to  the  summit. 

From  mills  to  summit  is  about  5  miles.     Station  to  mills,  2  miles. 

*  Livermore -Waterville  Path.- — This  is  intended  for  a  bridle-path.  Starting  from  the 
mills  at  Livermore,  a  logging-road  is  followed  nearly  two  miles  on  the  southerly  side  of  Saw- 
yer's River.  Here  the  path  begins  and  runs  along  the  north-west  base  of  Green's  Cliff, 
crosses  Swift  River  at  a  beautiful  fall,  thence  through  the  Notch  south  of  Mount  Kan- 
camagus  to  Greeley's,  in  Waterville.  The  path  is  well  marked  by  painted  signs.  Distance 
from  Livermore  to  Swift  River,  5  miles  ;  to  Greeley's,  12  miles. 

*Mounf  rF/7/n'.— Path  leaves  the  P.  &  O.  R.R.  a  little  south  of  W'illey  Station.  The 
rise  is  rapid  until  the  Brook  Kedron  is  reached  ;  this  brook  is  then  followed  to  its  source, 
thence  the  path  leads  direct  to  the  summit.  Distance,  lA  miles.  The  climb  is  steep  ;  but 
the  view  unsurpassed. 

Crawford  Bridle-path  leads  from  the  Crawford  House  to  the  summit  of  Washington. 
Path  is  plain,  and  the  travelling  along  the  ridge  is  easy;  but  it  is  not  in  condition  for 
horses.     See  pp.  325,  326. 

*Carter  Notch. — Path  begins  near  the  end  of  the  Wildcat  Valley  road,  about  5^}  miles 
from  Jackson  ;  thence  it  follows  the  valley  of  the  brook  to  the  ponds  in  the  Notch.  From 
the  ponds  it  follows  Nineteen  Mile  Brook  to  the  clearing  back  of  the  Glen  House.  The 
travelling  is  easy ;  the  view  in  the  Notch  grand. 


332  TOUmST'S    APPEXDIX. 

Distance  from  the  road  to  the  ponds,  about  4  miles ;  from  the  ponds  to  the  Glen  House, 
about  the  same. 

*Carter  Dome. — The  path  starts  from  the  larger  pond  in  the  Notch,  and  is  well  marked 
to  the  summit.     It  is  very  steep,  and  about  i^  miles  in  length. 

Great  Gulf. — A  path  beginning  near  the  Glen  House  goes  through  this  gorge.  From 
the  end  of  the  path  the  carriage-road  or  railroad  on  Mount  Washington  may  be  reached 
by  a  severe  climb  up  the  side  of  the  ravine. 

Tiickerman  s  Rtninc. — The  Glen  House  path  leaves  the  Mount  Wasiiington  carriage- 
road  about  2  miles  up,  then  crosses  through  the  forest  to  Hermit  Lake. 

*  Via  Crystal  Cascade. — The  Mountam  Club  path  begins  about  3  miles  from  the  Glen 
House,  on  the  Jackson  road,  ascending  the  .stream  until  it  joins  the  Glen  House  path  near 
Hermit  Lake.  Here  the  Club  has  a  good  camp  for  the  use  of  travellers.  Beyond,  a  single 
path  extends  to  the  Snow-field  ;  and  a  feasible  route  has  been  marked  with  white  paint  on 
the  rocks — up  the  head  wall  of  the  ravine,  and  thence  to  the  summit. 

*Moimt  Adams. — This  path  starts  opposite  the  residence  of  Charles  E.  Lowe,  on  the 
road  from  Jefferson  Hill  to  Gorham,  about  ?i\  miles  from  either  town,  and  climbs  the  steep 
spur  forming  one  wall  of  King's  Ravine,  following  over  the  ledges  to  the  westerly  peak, 
thence  to  the  summit.  Distance,  about  4  miles.  Nearly  half  way  up  the  spur  a  good 
camp  has  been  built  for  the  use  of  climbers.  The  way  over  the  ledges  is  marked  by  cairns. 
Mount  Jefferson  may  be  reached  by  turning  to  the  right  before  reaching  the  summit  of  the 
westerly  peak  ;  JNLidison  by  turning  to  the  left. 

*Kirig's  Ravine. — The  path  branches  from  tlic  Mount  Adams  path  about  i;l  miles  from 
Lowe's.  The  bowlders  in  the  Ravine  are  reached  without  great  difficulty.  From  the  bowl- 
ders up  the  head-wall,  and  through  the  gate-way,  the  climb  is  arduous  ;  and  the  way  is  not 
very  distinctly  marked.  From  the  gate-way,  Madison  and  the  several  peaks  of  Adams  may 
be  reached. 

Aloiint  Madison. — There  are  several  routes  up  Madison,  but  the  best  is  probably  that 
leading  up  the  ridge  from  "  Dolly "  Copp's,  on  the  (lid  Pinkham  Road.  The  climb  is 
tedious,  and  the  path  somewhat  overgrown.  The  Mountain  Club  will  probably  clear  and 
keep  this  path  in  good  condition. 

*  Bridal  Veil  Falls. — Path  starts  from  Horace  Brooks's,  on  the  road  from  Franconia  to 
Easton  —  2  to  3  miles  from  Sugar  Hill  and  Franconia  Village.  It  follows  an  old  road 
across  the  clearings  to  Copper-mine  Brook,  thence  by  the  brook  to  the  foot  of  the  Falls. 
Distance,  2^  miles  from  Brooks's.     Walking  easy. 

The  path  to  the  Flume  on  Mount  Kinsman  leads  from  the  same  highway  about  a  mile 
beyond  Brooks's. 

Mount  Lafayette. — The  bridle-path  begins  near  the  Profile  House,  turning  Eagle  Cliff, 
and  crossing  over  to  the  main  ridge.  It  leads  nearly  to  the  summit  of  the  ridge,  thence 
across  the  col  by  the  lakes,  and  up  the  main  peak.     Distance,  3^  to  3;}  miles. 

Mount  Cannon. — The  path  enters  the  forest  near  the  cottages  in  front  of  the  Profile 
House.  The  summit  is  reached  by  a  steep  climb  of  i;V  miles.  The  Cannon  Rock  is  a 
short  distance  down  the  mountain-side,  to  the  left  of  the  path  as  it  emerges  from  the  for- 
est ;  the  forehead  rock  of  the  Profile  can  be  reached  by  bearing  down  the  mountain  diag- 
onally to  the  right  from  Cannon  Rock  until  the  edge  of  the  cliff  is  reached.  It  is  a  hard 
scramble  to  the  latter. 


TOURIST'S   APPENDIX.  333 

Black  Mountain,  Watcrvillc. — The  new  path  leaves  the  highway  2  miles  below  Greeley's, 
near  Drake's  Brook.  It  runs  near  the  edge  of  the  ravine  of  Drake's  Brook,  crosses  the 
ridge  between  Noon  and  Jennings'  Peaks — to  each  of  which  a  branch  path  leads — thence 
up  the  northerly  slope  of  the  main  summit.  Distance  from  the  road  to  the  summit  is  33- 
miles.     The  views  are  very  fine,  and  the  climb  easy  for  ordinary  walkers. 

Osceola. — I'ath  leaves  the  Greeley-pond  path  beyond  the  saw-mill  above  Greeley's,  bear- 
ing to  the  left.     Ascent  easy.     Distance,  about  4  miles. 

Tccumsch. — Path  branches  from  the  Osceola  path  at  the  crossing  of  the  west  branch  of 
Mad  River,  \  of  a  mile  from  Greeley's.  The  grade  is  easy,  except  for  a  short  distance 
near  the  summit.     Distance  from  Greeley's,  3  miles. 

Tri-Pyramid. — The  great  slide  on  Tri-Pyramid  may  be  reached  from  Greeley's  by  a 
path  across  the  pasture  to  the  right  from  the  rear  of  the  house,  thence  about  i^  miles 
through  fine  old  woods  to  a  deserted  clearing  known  as  Beckytown.  From  here  the  stream 
may  be  followed  by  clambering  over  the  debris  of  the  slide  nearly  2  miles  to  the  base  of  the 
South  Peak.  The  summit  is  reached  by  climbing  to  the  apex  of  the  slide,  thence  bearing 
up  to  the  right  a  short  distance  through  low  woods. 

*  Thornton -Warren  Path. — This  path  was  built  to  enable  visitors  in  the  Upper  Pemige- 
wasset  Valley  or  in  Warren  to  cross  from  one  locality  to  the  other,  avoiding  the  long  detour 
via  Plymouth.  It  starts  from  the  Profile  House  stage-road  at  the  junction  of  tlie  Tannery 
road,  in  West  Thornton,  crosses  Hubbard  Brook  at  this  point,  and  passes  over  a  long  stretch 
of  pasture  until  the  woods  are  reached.  At  this  point,  and  at  all  doubtful  points,  signs  have 
been  placed.  For  much  of  the  distance  the  path  follows  Hubbard  Brook,  and  passes  out 
through  the  Notch  between  Mounts  Kineo  and  Cushman  to  an  old  road-way  leading  to 
clearings  on  Baker's  River,  near  the  mountain-houses  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Moosilauke. 

Distance  from  the  stage-road  to  the  road-way  in  Warren,  8  miles.  A  permanent  camp 
has  been  built  half-way  on  Hubbard  Brook. 

A  trail  has  been  spotted  from  a  point  in  the  path  about'i  mile  north  of  the  camp  to  the 
summit  of  Kineo. 


INDEX 


Refer  to  a  mountain,  lake,  or  river,  under  its  proper  name,  thus:    Washington  (Mount);   Squam  (Lake) :   Saco  (River). 
The  abbreviations  in  parentheses  show  that  the  town  or  village  is  on  the  line  of  a  railway:  (E.  R.R.)  stands   for  Eastern; 
(P.  &  O.),  Portland  and  Ogdensburg  ;  (B.,  C,  &  M.),  Boston,  Concord,  and  Montreal ;  (G.  T.  K),  Grand  Trunk ;  (Pass.l,  Passumpsic. 


Adams,  Mount,  from  North  Con\v.iy,  55  ;  from  Thorn 
Hill,  122  ;  from  Wildcat  Valley,  133  ;  from  Car- 
ter Dome,  142  ;  from  the  Glen  House,  145  ;  from 
Mount  Washington  carriage-road,  iSl  ;  ascent  by 
King's  Ravine,  298  ;  ascent  from  Mount  Washing- 
ton, 312-315  ;  the  apex,  315  ;  view  from,  316. 

Adirondacks,  from  Moosehillocl<,  273. 

Agassiz,  Mount,  from  ProHle  House  Road,  249,  276. 

Agiochook,  or  Agiockochook  (Indian  name  for  the 
White  Mountains),  120. 

Amherst,  Sir  Jeffrey  (Gen.),  in  the  French  War,  259. 

Ammonoosuc,  Falls  of,  304. 

Ammonoosuc  River,  source  of,  179. 

Ammonoosuc  Valley,  from  Mount  Clinton,  gS  ;  at 
Bethlehem,  277  ;  at  Fabyan's,  300. 

Androscoggin  River,  at  Gorhain,  170  ;  at  Berlin,  174  ; 
at  Shelburne,  176  ;  at  Bethel,  177. 

Appalachian  Mountain  Club,  62,  221. 

Artists'  Falls  (North  Conway),  46,  47. 

Autumn  foliage,  66,  67. 

Bakf.r's  River  (branch  of  Pemigewasset,  branch  of 
the  Merrimack),  210  ;  falls  on,  269. 

Bald  Mountain,  an  inferior  summit  of  Choconia,  26. 

Hall,  B.  L.,  lost  on  Mount  Washington,  186. 

Bartlett  Bowlder,  58. 

Bartlett  (P.  &  O.  R.R.),  mountains  surrounding,  6r, 
62  ;  ascent  of  Mount  Carrigain  from,  62-65. 

Basin  (Franconia  Pass),  231. 

Beecher's  Cascade  (near  Crawford  House),  89. 

Belknap,  Jeremy,  D.D.  (historian  of  New  Hamp- 
shire), quoted,  6g. 

Belknap,  Mount  (Lake  Winnipiseogee),  8. 

Beinis,  Dr.  Samuel  A.,  home  of,  69,  70. 

Berlin  (G.  T.  R.),  172  ;  the  Falls,  174,  175. 

Bethel,  Maine  (G.  T.  R.),  177. 

Bethlehem  (B.,  C,  &  M.  R.R.),  276  ;  admirable  po- 
sition of  as  a  centre,  277  ;  Bethlehem  Street,  27S, 


279  ;  fine  views  from,  2S0,  2S1 ;  a  sunset  from  the 
"  Maplewood,"  282-284  ;  White  Mountains  from, 
2S4  ;  the  Hermit,  286  ;  the  peddler,  288. 

Bigelow's  Lawn  (Mount  Washington),  igS. 

Black  Mountain  (Sandwich  Dome),  from  West  Camp- 
ton,  216  ;  Noon  Peak,  220  ;  from  Waterville  (Gree- 
ley's), 221. 

Boott's  Spur  (Mount  Washington),  146 ;  from  the 
plateau,  198. 

Bourne,  Lizzie,  death  of,  on  Mount  Washington,  310. 

Bridal  Veil  Falls  (Mount  Kinsman),  255. 

Brown,  George  L.  (painter),  referred  to,  253. 

Buck-board  wagon  described,  273. 

C.\MPTON,  211  ;  Campton  Hollow,  214  ;  West  Camp- 
ton,  and  view  froin,  215  ;  Sanborn's,  216  ;  annals 
of  Campton,  2i6. 

Campton  Village  (Pemigewasset  Valley),  218. 

Cannon  (or  Profile)  Mountain,  from  West  Campton, 
215;  from  the  clearing  below  the  Profile,  231;  re- 
markable profile  on,  232  ;  from  Franconia,  252. 

Carrigain,  Mount,  from  Chocorua,  30 ;  from  Bartlett, 
62  ;  ascent  from  Bartlett,  62-64  ;  ^''^'•'■'  f™™  sum- 
mit, 64,  65. 

Carrigain  Notch,  from  Mount  Chocorua,  30 ;  from 
Mount  Carrigain,  64. 

Carter  Dome,  133  ;  the  Pulpit,  136  ;  .ascent  of,  and 
view  from,  140.  141. 

Carter  Mountains,  from  Gorham,  170. 

Carter  Notch,  from  Chocorua,  31  ;  from  North  Con- 
way, 40;  from  Thorn  Hill,  122,  132;  way  into, 
from  Jackson,  132  ;  impressive  desolation  of  the 
interior,  137  ;  the  Giants'  Barricade,  137,  138  ;  the 
lakes,  139  :  way  out  to  Glen  House,  143. 

Castellated  Ridge  (Mount  Jefferson),  314. 

Cathedral  (North  Conway),  46. 

Cathedral  Ledge  {North  Conway),  41,  42. 

Cathedral  Woods  (North  Conway),  55. 


536 


IND  E  X. 


Centre  Harbor,  approach  to,  by  Lake  Winnipiseogee, 
8-10  ;  settled,  lo  ;  route  by  stage  to  West  Ossipee 
via  Sandwich  and  Tamworth,  18-21. 

Chandler,  Benjamin,  lost  on  Mount  Washington,  186. 

Cherry  Mountain  (Valley  of  Israel's  River),  2gi ;  Owl's 
Head,  292  ;  road  to  Fabyan's,  300. 

Chocorua,  Lake,  from  the  mountain,  2g,  31,  32, 

Chocorua  (Sho'kor'ua),  Mount,  from  Lake  Winnipi- 
seogee, g  ;  from  Red  Hill,  16  ;  legend  of,  21  ;  as- 
cent from  Tamworth,  25-28  ;  landscapes  from,  2g- 
31;  from  Mount  Willard,  g2. 

Clay,  Mount  (next  north  of  Washington),  169  ;  ascent 
of,  312. 

Clinton,  Mount  (near  Crawford  House),  97  ;  view  from 
summit,  100.  (First  mountain  ascended  by  Craw- 
ford Path.) 

Connecticut  Ox-Bow,  256-258. 

Conway,  or  Conway  Corner  (E.  R.R.),  superb  view  of 
the  great  chain  from,  33. 

Copp  Farm  (view-point  for  seeing  "  The  Imp  '),  165. 

Copp,  Nathaniel,  his  adventurous  deer-hunt,  167. 

Copper-mine  Brqok  (branch  of  Gale  River),  255. 

Crawford,  Abel,  described,  70-72. 

Crawford,  Ethan  Allen,  71,  72  ;  his  burial-place,  302. 

Crawford  bridle-path,  opened,  8g  ;  march  to  the  sum- 
mit {see  Chapter  X.)  ;  Mount  Clinton  first,  97  ;  the 
crystal  forests,  g8  ;  Liliputian  wood,  gg  ;  fine  view 
from  summit,  100  ;  frost-work,  100  ;  Mount  Pleas- 
ant next,  102  ;  in  a  snow-storm,  102  ;  crossing  the 
ridge,  103  ;  Oakes's  Gulf,  103  ;  Mount  Franklin 
next,  103  ;  (waler  here)  weird  objects  by  the  way, 
104  ;  Mount  Monroe  next  (tw'o  peaks,  with  shallow 
ponds  near  the  path)  ;  the  plateau,  105  ;  base  of 
the  cone  reached,  105  ;  ascent  of  the  cone,  107  ; 
the  stone  corral,  107  ;  the  summit,  108. 

Crawford  Glen  (Saco  Valley),  6g. 

Crawford  House  (summit  of  Crawford  Notch),  its  sur- 
roundings, 87-94. 

Crawford,  Mount  (Saco  Valley,  east  side),  fig  ;  D.avis 
Path  to  Mount  Washington,  73  ;  view  of  from 
Frankenstein  Bridge,  74. 

Crawford  Notch  (see  Great  Notch  of  the  White  Moun- 
tains). 
Crawford,  T.  J.,  opens  a  bridle-path  to  the  summit,  Sg. 
Crystal  Cascade  (Pinkham  Notch),  I4g,  150. 

Dartmouth,  see  Jefferson. 

Davis  Path  (to  Mount  Washington),  73  ;  junction  with 

Crawford  Path,  198. 
Deception,  Mount  (near  Fabyan's),  303. 
Destruction  of  mountain  forests,  172. 
Devil's  Den  (North  Conway),  45,  46. 
Diana's  Baths  (North  Conway),  46. 
Douglass,  William,  M.D.,  quoted,  on  the  origin  of  the 

name  White  Mountains,  121,  note. 


Dwight,  Timothy,  LL.D.,  71  (see  his  "Travels  in  New 
England,"  and  journeys  through  the  mountains). 

Eagle  Cliff  (Franconia  Pass),  from  Flume  House, 
225  ;  from  Profile  House,  23S,  23g  ;  ascent  by  the 
bridle-path,  243  ;  from  Franconia,  254. 

Eagle  Lakes  (Mount  Lafayette),  244.  (Also  called 
Cloud  Lakes.) 

Eagle  Mountain  (Eagle  Mountain  House),  Wildcat 
Valley,  Jackson,  133. 

Early  settlements  by  white  people,  216,  217,  293. 

Echo  Lake  (Franconia  Pass),  239. 

Echo  Lake  (North  Conway),  45. 

Elephant's  Head  (Crawford  Notch),  87. 

Ellis  River  (branch  of  the  Saco  ;  rises  in  Pinkham 
Notch),  see  Goodrich  Falls,  125  ;  Glen  Ellis  Falls, 
151;  incident  connected  with,  153. 

Emerald   Pool  (near  Glen   House,  Pinkham   Notch), 

147,  148. 
Endicott  Rock,  a  surveyor's  monument  at  the  outlet 
of  Lake  Winnipiseogee,  10. 

Fabyan's  (B.,  C,  &  M.  and  P.  &  O.  R.K.),  view  at, 
300  ;  Mount  Washington  Railway,  301  ;  Eleazer 
Rosebrook  and  E.  A.  Crawford,  302,  303. 

Fall  of  a  Thousand  Streams,  162. 

Farmer,  John  (historian),  quoted,  210. 

Field,  Darby,  makes  the  first  ascent  of  Mount  Wash- 
ington, 116-119  ;  second  ascent,  iig,  see  iwle. 

Flume  (Franconia  Pass),  way  to  and  description  of, 
226-228. 

Flume  Cascade,  see  description  by  Dr.  T.  Dwight,  in 
his  "  Travels  in  New  England." 

Flume  House  (Franconia  Pass),  224. 

Franconia  Mountains,  from  West  Campton,  215;  from 
Bethlehem,  280  ;  from  Jefferson,  292. 

Franconia  Pass  (Chapters  II.  and  III.,  Third  Jour- 
ney), Flume  House,  224;  the  Pool,  225;  the  Flume, 
226  ;  the  Basin,  231  ;  Mounts  Cannon  and  Lafay- 
ette, 231,  232;  the  "Old  Man,"  232;  Profile  Lake, 
232  ;  Profile  House,  237  ;  Eagle  Cliff,  238  ;  Echo 
Lake,  239  ;  sunset  in  the  pass,  240  ;  from  Bethle- 
hem heights,  27g. 

Franconia  village  (Iron  Works),  from  Mount  Lafay- 
ette, 243  ;  general  view  of,  251 ;  line  views  in,  253, 

254- 

Frankenstein  Cliff  (Saco  Valley),  named,  73  ;  appear- 
ance of,  from  the  valley,  73,  74  ;  the  bridge,  74. 

Fryeburg,  Maine  (P.  &  O.  R.R.),  33-38. 

Gale  River  (branch  of  the  Ammonoosuc,  branch  of 

the  Connecticut),  243. 
Garfield,  Mount  (see  Haystack),  2S4. 
Giant's  Stairs  (Saco  Valley,  east  side),  73  ;  from  Jack- 
son, 123,  129. 


INDEX. 


337 


Gibbs's  Falls  (near  Crawford  House),  97. 

Clen  Ellis  Kails,  151,  152  ;  legend  of,  152. 

C;ien  House,  way  to,  by  Jackson  and  Carter  Notch, 
131  ;  its  surroundings,  144  ;  carriage-road  to  tlie 
summit,  144  ;  Mount  Washington  from,  144,  145  ; 
Emerald  Pool,  147,  148  ;  Thompson's  Falls,  146  ; 
Crystal  Cascade,  149;  Glen  Ellis  Falls,  151;  Tuck- 
erman's  Ravine,  155  ;  The  Imp,  165  ;  to  or  from 
Gorham,  165,  170;  from  Mount  Washington  car- 
riage-road, iSi. 

(joodenow's,  jv^  Sugar  Hill. 

tioodrich  Falls  (Ellis  River),  125. 

Gorham  (G.  T.  R.),  its  situation,  169. 

Grand  Monadnock,  from  Red  Hill,  17;  from  Mount 
Washington,  192. 

f  Jreat  Gulf,  from  Glen  House,  165  ;  from  Mount  Wash- 
ington carriage-road,  181,  1S5  ;  from  Mount  Clay, 

313- 

Great  Notch  of  the  White  Mountains  (Crawford 
Notch),  from  Mount  Chocorua,  31  ;  from  Mount 
Carrigain,  64,  65  ;  approach  to,  by  the  Saco  Val- 
ley, 76  ;  the  mountains  forming  it,  77  ;  Willey,  or 
Notch  House,  77;  landslip  of  1826,  79,  80;  the 
Cascades,  84,  85,  89,  97  ;  Gate  of  the  Notch,  86  ; 
summit  of  the  Notch  (Crawford  House),  86  ;  Ele- 
phant's Head,  87  ;  discovery  of  the  Pass,  88,  8g  ; 
the  Notch  from  Mount  Willard,  91 ;  from  Mount 
Clinton,  100. 

Greeley's,  see  Waterville. 

Green  Mountains,  from  Mount  Washington,  190  ;  from 
Moosehillock,  273. 

Gyles,  John  (Capt.),  quoted  on  the  Indian  name  for 
the  White  Mountains,  120. 

Hancock,  Mount,  from  the  Ellsworth  road  (Camp- 
ton),  216  ;  from  Moosehillock,  272. 

Hart's  Ledge  (Saco  Valley,  east  side,  near  Bartlett),  62. 

Haverhill  (B.,  C,  &  M.  R.R.),  257. 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  origin  of  his  story  of  "The 
Great  Carbuncle,"  119;  death  of,  209;  legend  of 
"  The  Great  Stone  Face,"  235. 

Hayes,  Mount  (Gorham,  New  Hampshire),  169-171. 

Haystack,  Mount  (now  Mount  Garfield),  254. 

Hermit  Lake  (Tuckerman's  Ravine,  Mount  Washing- 
ton), 159. 

Hitchcock,  C.  H.  (geologist),  197. 

Humphrey's  Ledge  (near  Glen  Station),  41. 

Hunter,  Harry  W.,  lo.st  on  Mount  Washington,  199, 
note. 

Huntington's  Ravine,  from  Carter  Dome,  142. 

IDLEVVILD  (near  Crawford  House),  89. 
Imp,  The  (rock  profile  near  Glen  House),  l66. 
Indians,  customs  of  mountain   tribes,  lu  ;  Sokokis,  or 
Pigwackets,  or  Peguawkets,  destruction  of  by  Love- 


28 


well,  34-38  ;  Indian  names,  24,  25,  note ;  supersti- 
tions regarding  the  high  summits,  traditions,  etc. 
{see  Chapter  I.,  Second  Journey);  attack  Slielburne, 
177  ;  at  Plymouth,  210  ;  attack  Dartmouth  (Jeffer- 
son), 294. 

Inter\'ale  (North  Conway,  E.  R.R.  and  P.  &  O.  R.R.), 
superb  panorama  from,  55-57;  see  axX.  North  Con- 
way. 

Israel's  River  (branch  of  the  Connecticut),  2gl. 

Jackson  {see  Chapters  II.  and  IH.,  Second  Journey), 
122-143  ;  how  to  get  there  from  North  Conv.ay, 
122  ;  its  topography,  123  ;  Jackson  Falls  (on  Wi Id- 
cat  River),  124  ;  Fernald's  Farm,  130  ;  Wil '.cat 
Valley,  133  ;  to  Carter  Notch,  133-140. 

Jackson,  C.  T.  (geologist),  quoted,  197,  note. 

Jackson  Falls  (Wildcat  River),  124. 

Jefferson,  Mount,  from  Jefferson  Hill,  293  ;  Ravine  of 
the  Cascades,  297  ;  ascent  from  Mount  Washing- 
ton, 312  ;  Ravine  of  the  Castles,  313  ;  Castellated 
Ridge,  314. 

Jefferson  (branch  R.R.  from  Whitefield),  291  ;  Jeffer- 
son Hill,  292  ;  antecedents  of,  293  ;  Indian  attack 
on,  294;  East  Jefferson,  295  ;  to  Randolph  Hill, 

297  ;  to  Fabyan's,  300. 
Jockey  Cap  (Fryeburg,  Maine),  34. 

Josselyn,  John  (author  of  "  New  England's  Rarities"), 
ascends  Mount  Washington,  119. 

Kearsarge,  Mount,  from  North  Conway,  39,  40,  41  ; 
winter  ascent  of,  47-54;  view  from  summit,  51, 
52  ;  from  Bartlett,  62  ;  from  Carter  Dome,  141. 

King,  Thomas  Starr,  tribute  to,  294,  295. 

King's  Ravine  (Mount  Adams),  from  Randolph  Hill, 

298  ;  from  Mount  Adams,  317. 

Kinsman,  Mount  (next  south  of  Cannon,  Franconia 
group),  244,  252. 

Lafayette,  Mount,  from  West  Campton,  215  ;  see 
Chapter  III.,  Third  Journey  ;  Eagle  Cliff,  238, 
239  ;  from  Echo  Lake,  240  ;  ascent  from  the  Pro- 
file House,  243-247  ;  the  Notch,  243  ;  the  ravines, 
243-254  ;  Eagle  Lakes,  244  ;  summit  and  view, 
246,  247  ;  from  Franconia  Iron  Works,  252  ;  from 
Newbur)',  Vermont,  258;  from  Bethlehem  heights, 
279. 

Lake  of  the  Clouds  (Mount  Wa.shington),  19S. 

Lary's  (Gorham,  New  Hampshire),  171. 

Lead  Mine  Bridge  (Shelbume,  G.  T.  R.),  grand  view 
from,  175,  176. 

Legends  of  General  Hampton  and  the  Devil,  11-14; 
of  Mount  Chocorua,  21-24  i  ^^  Passaconnaway,  24, 
25,  note ;  Indi.an  tradition  of  the  Deluge,  114  ;  the 
Indian's  heaven,  115;  the  Great  Carbuncle,  115; 
the   war   party   and   its   prisoners,  127,  128  ;    the 


33^ 


IND  E  X. 


youthful  lovers,  12S  ;  of  Glen  Ellis  Falls,  152  ;  of 

the  Silver  Image,  263. 
Lion's  Head  (Tuckerman's  Ravine),  142,  146,  159. 
Lisbon  (B.,C.,&  M.  R.R.),  discovery  of  gold  ores  in, 

251- 

Littleton  (B.,  C,  &  M.  R.R.),  from  Bethlehem,  279. 

Livermore  (P.  &  O.  R.R.),  Saco  Valley,  logging  ham- 
let of,  63  ;  way  to  the  Pemigewasset,  221. 

Livermore  Falls  (Pemigewasset  River),  212. 

Logging  on  the  Androscoggin,  173,  174. 

Lonesome  Lake  (Mount  Kinsman),  244. 

Long  Island,  Lake  Winnipiseogee,  east  shore,  g. 

Lovewell,  John  (captain  of  colonial  rangers),  battle 
with  the  Sokokis,  34-38. 

Lovewell's  Pond  (scene  of  Lovewell's  fight).  34. 

Lowell,  Mount  (Saco  Valley),  slide  on,  64. 

Mad  River  and  Valley  (branch  of  Pemigewasset),  218. 

Madison,  Mount  (next  north  of  Adams),  165. 

Marsh,  Sylvester,  projector  of  Mount  Washington  rail- 
way, 301. 

Merrimack  River,  source  of,  65. 

Moat  Range,  position  of,  39  ;  cliffs  of,  40,  41,  44  ;  the 
ascent,  47  ;  from  Jackson  Falls,  124. 

Monroe,  Mount,  from  Tuckennan's  Ravine,  160. 

Moose  River  (branch  of  Androscoggin),  171. 

Moosehillock,  or  Moosilauke,  from  Lake  Winnipi- 
seogee, 10  ;  from  Chocorua,  30  ;  from  Pemigewas- 
set Valley,  223  ;  from  Newbury,  Vermont,  258  ;  see 
Chapter  VIL,  Third  Journey,  269-275  ;  how  to 
reach  the  mountain,  269  ;  the  mountain's  top,  271 ; 
view  from,  273  ;  from  Bethlehem,  279. 

Moriah,  Mount  (Carter  Chain,  near  Gorham),  169. 

Mountain  Butterfly,  202. 

Nancy's  Brook  (Saco  Valley),  story  of,  67-69. 

Newbury,  Vermont  (Pass.  R.R.),  257. 

Nineteen  Mile  Brook  (branch  of  the  Peabody  River, 
a  branch  of  the  Androscoggin  ;  rises  in  Carter 
Notch),  143. 

North  Conway  (E.  R.R.  and  P.  &  O.  R.K.),  topo- 
graphical features  of,  39-41  ;  excursions  from, 
57  ;  see  Intervale,  White  Horse  Ledge,  Cathedral 
Ledge,  Humphrey's  Ledge,  Echo  Lake,  Diana's 
Baths,  Artists'  Falls,  Kearsarge  and  Moat  Moun- 
tains, etc. 

Oakes's  Gulf  (in  great  range),  103. 

Old  Man  of  the  Mountain  (Franconia  Pass),  231-236  ; 
legends  of,  235. 

Ossipee  Mountains,  from  Lake  Winnipiseogee,  8. 

Owl's  Head  (Lake  Memphremagog),  from  Moosehil- 
lock, 273  ;  Cherry  Mountain,  292. 

Peabody  River  (branch  of  the  Androscoggin  ;  rises 
in  Pinkham  Notch),  144,  154,  note. 


Pemigewasset  River,  branch  of  Merrimack,  210  ;   Liv- 

ennore  Falls,  211;  East  Branch,  223. 
Pemigewasset,  Mount  (near  Flume  House),  ascent  and 

view,  229. 
Pemigewasset  Valley  (Chapter  1.,  Tliird  Jcnirney),  210- 

223  ;  villages  of,  212. 
Pemigewasset  Wilderness,  way  through,  221,  22g. 
Percy  Peaks,  280,  twte. 
Perkins  Notch,  position  of,  133. 
Pilot  Mountains  from  tJorhim,  170;  origin  of  name, 

170,  171. 
Pine  Mountain  (Gorham,  New  Hampshire),  170. 
Pinkham  Notch  from  Thorn  Hill,  122  ;  from  the  road 

between  Jackson  and  Glen  House,  I2g  ;  from  Glen 

House,  144  ;  see  Thompson's  Falls,  Emerald  Pool, 

Crystal  Cascade,  Tuckerman's   Ravine,  Glen  Ellis 

Falls,  etc.,  144-164. 
Pleasant,  Mount,  from  Faliyan's,  300. 
Plymouth  (B.,  C,  &  M.  R.R.),  209;   routes  through 

the  mountains,  211. 
Pool,  The  (Franconia  Pass),  225. 
Portland   and   Ogdensburg   Railroad,  ])assage   of   tlie 

White  Mountains  Notch,  93. 
Prime,  W.  C,  referred  to,  244. 
Profile   House  (Franconia  Pass),  its  attractions,  237- 

240  ;  see  Old  Man,  Profile  Lake,  Mounts  Cannon 

and    Lafayette,  Eagle   Cliff,  Echo   Lake,  etc.  ;  to 

Bethlehem  by  the  old  highway  vi&  Franconia,  248 ; 

by  rail,  248. 
Profile  Lake  (P"ranconia  Pass),  232. 
Prospect,  Mount  (Holdemess),  214. 

Randolfh  Hii.l,  drive  to,  and  view  from,  297,  298. 

Ravine  of  the  Castles  (Mount  Jefferson),  313. 

Raymond's  Cataract,  from  Carter  Dome,  142  ;  from 
Pinkham  Notch,  147  ;  see  Tuckerman's  Ravine. 

Red  Hill  from  Lake  Winnipiseogee,  10  ;  ascent  of, 
from  Centre  Harbor,  and  view  from  summit,  14-17. 

Ripley  Falls  (on  Cow  Brook,  Saco  Valley),  89. 

Rogers's,  Robert  (Major),  account  of  the  White  Moun- 
tains, 119,  121,  note;  destroys  St.  Francis,  259  ;  see 
Chapter  VI.,  Third  Jouniey. 

Rosebrook,  Eleazer,  sketch  of.  302,  303. 

S.\co  Valley  (Chapters  IV.  to  IX.,  inclusive),  from 
Mount  Choeoraa,  31  ;  at  Fryeburg  (Maine),  33  ; 
at  North  Conway,  39  ;  at  Bartlett,  61-65  ;  irmw 
Mount  Carrigain,  64,  65  ;  source  of  the  Saco,  88  ; 
historical  incident,  153. 

Sandwich  Mountains  from  Lake  Winnipiseogee,  8  ; 
from  Sandwich  Centre,  19  ;  from  Tamworth  (Nick- 
erson's),  24. 

Sandwich  (town  of),  mountains  near,  19. 

Sandwich  Notch,  position  of,  218. 

Sawyer's  River  (branch  of  the  Saco),  valley  of,  62,  63. 


INDEX. 


339 


Sawyer's  Rock  (Saci>  Valley,  west  side,  near  liartlelt), 
62. 

Schoolcraft,  Henry  Ro\vc,  ([iiotctl  on  the  Indian  name 
for  the  White  Mountains,  120. 

Silver  Cascade  (Crawford  Notch),  85. 

Snow  Arch  (TucUeniian's  Ravine),  161,  162. 

Spencer,  Jabez  (General),  settles  Campton,  216. 

Squam  Lake  from  Red  Hill,  16. 

St.  Francis  de  .Sales,  sacked  by  Rogers,  259;  sec  Chap- 
ter VI.,  Third  Journey. 

Star  Lake  (Mount  Adams),  317. 

.Stark,  John  (General),  captured  by  Indians,  210,  211. 

Stark,  William,  210,  211. 

Starr  King  Mountain,  2()i. 

Storm  Lake  (between  Madison  and  Adams),  317. 

.Sugar  Hill,  from  Profile  House  road,  249  ;  view  from, 
252,253. 

Sullivan,  James  (Governor  of  Massachusetts),  his  au- 
thority for  the  story  of  "  The  Great  Carbuncle," 
116  ;  quoted,  153. 

Swift  River  (branch  of  the  Saco),  from  Mount  Cho- 
corua,  30. 

Tamworth  Iron  Works  (point  from  which  Cho- 
corua  is  usually  ascended),  21,  25. 

Thompson's  Falls  (near  Glen  House),  146. 

Thorn  Mountain,  from  North  Conway,  40  ;  walk  over 
Thorn  Hill  (lower  spur  of  Thorn  Mountain)  to 
Jackson,  122,  132. 

Tripyramid  Mountain,  from  .Mad  River  Valley,  2ig  ; 
slide  on,  221. 

Trout-breeding,  State  establishment  at  Plymouth,  212. 

Trout-fishing  begins  in  New  Hampshire  May  i,  213. 

Trumbull,  J.  Hammond,  LL.D.,  quoted  on  the  In- 
dian names  for  the  White  Mountains,  120,  nole. 

Tuckerman's  Ravine  from  Mount  Kearsarge,  51  ; 
from  Carter  Dome,  142  ;  from  Thompson's  Falls, 
146  ;  way  into  from  Glen  House,  156  ;  appearance 
from  Glen  House,  156;  Hemiit  Lake  and  Lion's 
Head  Crag,  159  ;  Snow  Arch,  161  ;  head  wall, 
162 ;  out  by  the  path  to  Ci-ystal  Cascade,  164. 

ViKVvs,  from  Red  Hill,  14-17  ;  from  Choconia,  29-31 ; 
from  Jockey  Cap,  34  ;  from  Conway  Corner,  33  ; 
from  North  Conway,  40  ;  from  Mount  Kearsarge, 
51;  from  the  Intervale  (North  Conway),  55-57; 
from  Mount  Carrigain,  64,  65 ;  from  above  Bemis's, 
74  ;  from  Mount  Willard,  gi  ;  from  Mount  Clin- 
ton, 100 ;  from  Carter  Dome,  141  ;  from  Glen 
House,  145;  from  Gorham,  169;  from  Berlin,  172, 
175  ;  from  Shelburne  (Lead  Mine  Bridge),  176  ; 
from  Mount  Washington  carriage-road,  181,  185  ; 
from  the  summit,  189-192;  from  West  Camp- 
ton,  215  ;  from  the  Ellsworth  road  (Pemigewasset 
valley),  216  ;   from   Mount    Pemigewasset  (Flume 


House),  229  ;  from  Mount  Lafayette,  246  ;  from 
Sugar  Hill,  252 ;  from  the  foot  of  Bethlehem 
heights  (Gale  River  valley),  254  ;  from  Moosehil- 
loek,  272  ;  from  Bethlehem,  280,  281  ;  from  Jef- 
ferson Hill,  292  ;  from  East  Jefferson,  295  ;  from 
Randolph  Hill.  297  ;  from  Mount  Adams,  316. 

Warren  (B.,  C,  &  M.  R.R.),  jjoint  from  which  to 
ascend  Moosehillock,  269. 

Washington,  Mount,  River  (formerly  Dry  River),  grand 
view  of  the  high  summits  up  this  valley  from  P.  & 
O.  R.R.,  74  ;  the  valley  from  Mount  Clinton,  100. 

Washington,  Mount,  carriage -road,  17S  ;  Half-way 
House  and  the  Ledge,  180;  Great  Gulf,  181  ;  ac- 
cident on,  183  ;  Willis's  Seat,  and  the  view  185  ; 
Cow  Pasture,  186  ;  Dr.  Ball's  adventure,  186  ;  fate 
of  a  climber,  186;  up  the  pinnacle,  186  ;  United 
States  Meteorological  Station,  187  ;  the  summit, 
188. 

Washington,  Mount,  from  Lake  Winnipiseogee,  9  ; 
from  Mount  Chocorua,  31  ;  from  Conway,  33  ; 
from  North  Conway,  40  ;  from  Mount  Kearsarge. 
51  ;  from  Mount  Carrigain,  65  ;  first  path  to,  71  ; 
Davis  path,  73  ;  view  near  Bemis's  (P.  &  O.  R.R.), 
74  ;  Crawford  bridle-path  opened,  89  ;  from  Mount 
Willard,  93  ;  from  Mount  Clinton,  100  ;  first  as- 
cension, 1 16-119;  Indian  traditions  of,  see  Chap- 
ter I.,  Second  Journey;  from  Thorn  Hill,  122; 
from  the  Wildcat  Valley,  133  ;  from  C'arter  Dome, 
142  ;  from  Glen  House,  144  ;  from  the  tilen  House 
and  Gorham  road,  168  ;  carriage-road,  see  Chapter 
VII.,  Second  Journey  ;  the  Signal  Station,  187, 196  ; 
a  winter  tornado  on  the  summit,  192-194  ;  shadow 
of  the  mountain,  195  ;  the  plateau — its  floral  and 
entomological  treasures,  197,  19S  ;  transported 
bowlders  on,  197  ;  Lake  of  the  Clouds,  198  ;  from 
Mount  Lafayette,  246  ;  travellers  lost  on,  186,  199, 
310  ;  from  Moosehillock,  270  ;  from  Bethlehem. 
281,  2S2  ;  from  Fabyan's,  300  ;  railway  to  summit, 
301-306  ;  moonlight  on  the  summit,  311  ;  sunrise, 
312  ;  sunset,  318. 

Washington,  Mount,  Railway,  from  Fabyan's,  301 ;  to 
the  base,  304;  its  mechanism,  305;  Jacob's  Lad- 
der, 305  ;  up  the  mountain,  306.  307 ;  the  Summit 
Hotel,  307. 

Waterville  (Mad  River  valley),  the  neighborhood,  219; 
path  to  Livermore,  221. 

Webster,  Daniel,  at  Fryeburg,  Maine,  33. 

Webster,  Mount,  approach  to,  75  ;  from  Mount  Wil- 
lard, 92. 

Weirs  (B.,  C,  &  M.  R.R.),  Lake  Winnipiseogee,  west 
shore,  10,  see  note. 

Welch  Mountain  (Pemigewasset  v.illey),  218. 

Whipple,  Joseph  (Colonel),  settles  at  Jefferson,  294. 

White  Horse  Ledge  (North  Conway),  41. 


540 


INDEX. 


White  Mountains,  general  view  of,  from  Conway,  33  ; 
from  North  Conway,  40 ;  from  Mount  Carrigain 
(in  mass),  65;  legends  oi,see  Chapter  I.,  Second 
Journey;  first  ascensions,  116-119;  how  named, 
119,  120;  appearance  from  the  coast,  120,  121  ; 
from  Mount  Lafayette,  246 ;  from  Bethlehem, 
281  ;  from  Fabyan's,  300. 

Wildcat  River  (branch  of  the  Ellis,  a  branch  of  the 
Saco  ;  rises  in  Carter  Notch),  Jackson  Falls  on, 
124  ;  disappearance  of,  136. 

Wildcat  Mountain  (one  of  Carter  Notch  and  Pinkham 
Notch  Mountains),  position  of,  123  ;  avalanche  of 
bowlders,  136 ;  appearance  from  (barter  Notch. 
141  ;  from  (jlen  House,  145. 


Wildcat  Valley  (Jackson  to  Carter  Notch),  133-140. 

Willard,  Mount.  77  ;  ascent  t^f,  from  Crawforfl  House. 
91. 

Willey  family,  Inirial-place  of.  55  ;  deslniction  of,  by 
a  landslip,  77-So. 

Willey.  Mount,  from  Carrigain.  65  ;  approach  to  liy 
the  valley.  75  ;  from  Mount  Willard.  92. 

Winnipiseogee,  Lake,  sail  up,  from  Wolfborough  to 
Centre  Harbor,  8-10 ;  Indian  occupation  and  cus- 
toms, 10 ;  sunset  view  of,  from  Red  Hill,  16,  17. 

Winnipiseogee  River  (outlet  of  the  lake),  Indian  re- 
mains on.  10  ;   Endicott  Rock  in,  10,  note. 

Wolfborough  (E.  R.R.  branch),  Lake  Winnipiseogee, 


THE    END. 


NEW  YORK  &  NEW  ENGLAND  RAILROAD. 

•♦♦ — 

THIS  IS  THE  MOST  CONVENIENT  LINE  BETWEEN 


AS  IT  IS  THE  ONLY  LINE  running 

THROUGH  PULLMAN  CARS  WITHOUT  CHANGE. 


The  train  leaving  Washington,  Baltimore,  and  Philadelphia  in  the  afternoon, 
arrives  in  Boston  the  following  morning  in  season  to  connect  with  trains  on  the 
Eastern,  Boston  &  Maine,  and  Boston  Ar  Lowell  Eailroads,  for  points  in  the  White 
Mountains  and  shore  resorts.  The  morning  trains  from  the  White  Mountains  and 
shore  resorts  arrive  in  Boston  in  sufficient  time  to  cross  the  city  and  take  the 
7  P.M.  train  for  tiie  South. 

Berths  in  Pullman  Sleepers  can  be  secured  in  advance  on  application  to  the 
Company's  Office, 

322  Washington  St.,  Boston,  and  Depot,  foot  of  Summer  St. ;  and  at  Pennsylvania 
Eaili'oad  Ticket  Offices  in  Philadelphia,  Baltimore,  and  Washington. 

03"  Ask  for  Tickets  via  New  England  and  Str.  Maryland  Lines. 

S,  M.  lELTON,  Jr.,  General  Manager.  A,  0,  KENDALL,  General  Passenger  Agent. 

WILLIAM   S.  BUTLER  &   CO. 

90  &  92  Tremont  Street, 

(Opposite  Tremont  House),  BOSTON.  MASS. 

DEALERS   I\ 

Ribbons,  Laces,  Flowers,  Montures,  Velvets^  Nets, 

FEA-THERS,   SFRA.YS,   &c. 

HATS,  for  Ladies  and  Misses;  CORSETS— the  Best  Fitting  and  Most  Sensible: 

KiD  GLOVES  A  SPECIALTY-Latest  Styles,  Lowest  Prices;  BUTTONS,  TRIMMINGS,  &c., 

in  endless  variety ;  HOSIERY  and  UNDERWEAR,  for  Ladies  and 

Misses— an  admirable  assortment  at  low  rates. 

FANCY    GOOD^i,  PERFLJflERY,  TOILET    ARTICLES,  &c. 

AND   MANY  OTHER   NOVELTIES. 


Ladies  TisHin<»  Boston,  or  gentlomon  wishinj:  to  make  purchases  for  alisent  -n-ires,  sisters,  or  lafly  friends,  will 
do  well  to  inspect  tlie  admirably  selected  stock  of  Gloves,  Laces,  Velvets,  Ribbons,  Flowers,  Millinery  Gooils,  Ilats, 
Hosiery,  Small  Wares,  and  Fancy  Goods  generally,  offered  l)y  William  S.  Bctler  &  Co..  at  flu  and  '.)■>  Tremont 
Street  (opposite  the  Tremont  House).  This  firm  has  won  an  enviable  reputation  for  the  excellence  of  its  goods, 
its  courteous  attendance,  and  the  moderation  of  its  prices  ;  while  its  location  renders  it  most  convenient  of  access 
by  horse  cars,  either  from  the  hotels  or  from  anv  of  tlie  railroad  depots. 

IW  Orders  by  mail  or  express  will  receive  prompt  attention. 

WILLIAM  S.  BUTLER  &  CO.,      -      -      90  and  92  Tremont  Street,  Boston. 


SHORE   LINE   ROUTE. 

NEW  YORK  AND  BOSTON. 


Trains  leave  GRAND  CENTRAL  DEPOT,  New  York,  for  Boston,  at  8.05 
A.M.,  1  and  10  P.M.;  arriving  in  Boston  at  6  and  8.05  P.M.,  and  6.30  A.M. 

Sundays  for  Boston  at  10  P.M. 

On  1  P.M.  trains  from  Boston  and  New  York. 

AVA.O^ER    SLEERI^:a    Ci^RS 

On  night  trains  from  Boston  and  New  York. 

Leave  BOSTON  and  PROVIDENCE  STATION,  Boston,  at  8  A.M.,  1  and 
10.:tO  P.M.;  arriving  in  the  Grand  Central  Depot,  New  York,  at  4.33  and 
7.40  P.M.,  and  6.38"  A.M. 

Sundays  for  New  York  at  10.30  P.M. 

For  further  information,  apply  to 

J.  W.  RICHARDSON,  Agent,  State  Street,  Corner  Washington; 

Or  at  Providence  Railroad  Station,  Columbus  Avenue,  near  Boston  Common. 
A.  A.   FOLSOAI,   Superintendent. 

HARPEirS   CYCLOF.EDIA 

BRITISH  km  AMERICAN  POETRY. 

EDITED  BY 

EPES    SA.RaENT. 

Large  8vo,  nearly  1000  pages,  Illuminated  Cloth,  with  Colored  Edges,  $4.50;   Half  Leather,  $5.00. 


Mr.  Sai'gent  was  oiiiiiiontly  fitted  for  the  preparation 
of  a  woi'k  of  tliis  kind.  Few  men  possessed  a  wider 
or  more  profound  knowledge  of  Englisli  literature ; 
and  liis  judgment  was  elear,  acute,  and  di.^eriminatiug. 
*  *  *  Tlie  beautiful  ty))oj;rapliy  and  oilier  e.\terior 
charms  Ijroadly  hint  at  the  rich  feiu-^t  uf  instruction 
and  enjoyment  which  the  superb  volume  is  eminently 
fitted  (o  furnish. — .V.  Y.  7\mes. 

We  commend  it  highly.  It  contains  so  many  of  the 
notalile  poems  of  our  language,  and  so  nuich  tliat  is 
sound  poetry,  if  not  notable,  that  it  will  make  itself  a 
pleasure  wherever  it  is  found. — X.  Y.  Hi  raid 

The  selections  are  made  with  a  good  deal  of  taste 
.and  judgment,  and  without  prejudice  against  any  school 
01'  individual.  An  inde.'c  of  fii-st  lines  adds  to  the  use- 
fulness of  the  volume. — X.  Y.  Sim. 


The  collection  is  remarkably  complete.  *  *  *  Mr. 
Sargent's  work  deserves  special  connnendation  for  the 
exquisite  justice  it  does  to  living  writers  but  little 
known.  It  is  a  volume  of  rare  and  precious  flowers, 
culled  because  of  their  intrinsic  value,  without  regard 
to  the  writer's  fame.  The  selections  are  jnefaced  by  a 
brief  biographical  notice  of  the  author,  with  a  critical 
estimate  of  the  poetry.  *  •  *  A  valuable  acquisition 
to  the  literary  treasures  of  American  houseli(jlds.— 
X.  Y.  Ei'entnri  Express. 

lie  seems  to  have  culled  the  choicest  and  the  best 
from  the  broad  field.  »  *  *  Mr.  Sargent  had  the  fine 
ear  to  detect  the  pure,  true  music  of  the  heart  and 
imagination  wherever  it  was  voiced.  *  »  *  The  elegant 
volume  is  a  household  treasure  which  will  be  highly 
prized. — Hvanffilisl,  X.  V. 


Published  by   IIAKPEU  A:   BROTHERS,  New  York. 

Sent  hy  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


DRAKE'S  NEW  ENGLAND  COAST. 


NOOKS  AND  CORNERS  OF  THE  NEW  ENGLAND  COAST.  By  Samiki. 
Adams  Dkake.  With  numerous  lllu.stnition.s.  S(j[uari;  8vo,  Cluth,  $8  50;  Half 
Calf,  $5  75. 


My  dear  Sii{, — I  laid  out  ydur  new  and  lioau- 
fid  l)0()k  to  fakf  willi  nio  to-day  to  my  summer 
home,  bill  befoie  I  jro  I  wish  to  llianlv  you  for  pre- 
paring a  voluuu;  wliieh  i.s  every  way  so  delightful. 
All  summer  I  shall  have  it  at  hand,  and  many  a 
pleasant  hour  I  anticipate  in  the  enjoyment  of  it. 
I  have  read  far  enough  in  it  already  to  feel  how 
admirably  you  have  done  your  part  of  it,  and  I 
have  siuit,  in  turning  over  the  delectable  pages, 
what  a  panorama  of  lovely  nooks  and  rocky  coast 
your  artist  has  prepareti  for  the  pleasiu'e  of  yoiu' 
readers.  Jlay  they  be  a  good  many  thousand  this 
year,  and  continue  to  increase  time  onward.  If  I 
am  not  greatly  out  in  my  judgment,  edition  after 
edition  will  be  called  for.     Tr\ily  yours, 

.J.v.MES  T.  Fields. 

Thy  "  Nooks  and  Corners  of  the  New  England 
Coast"  is  a  delightful  book,  and  one  of  most  fre- 
quent reference  in  my  library.     Thy  friend, 

John  G.  Whittiek. 

I  take  this  opportunity  of  acknowledging  the 
l)leas\ire  I  have  received  from  your  interesting  book 
on  our  New  England  coast.  It  was  my  companion 
last  summer  on  the  coast  of  Maine.     Yours  trul}', 

P.  P.MtKMAN. 

Mr.  Samuel  Adams  Drake  does  for  the  New  Eng- 
land coast  such  service  as  Mr.  Nordhoff  has  done 
tor  the  Pacific.  His  "Nooks  and  Corners  of  the 
New  England  Coast" — a  volume  of  4.')9  pages — is 
an  admirable  guide  both  to  the  lover  of  the  pictu- 
resque and  the  searcher  for  historic  lore,  as  well  as 
to  slay-at-home  travellers.  The  "Preface"  tells 
the  story  of  the  book ;  it  is  a  sketch-map  of  the 
coast,  with  the  motto,  "On  this  line,  if  it  takes  all 
summer."  "  Summer  "  began  with  Mr.  Drake  one 
Christmas-day  at  Jlount  Desert,  whence  ho  went 
South,  touching  at  Castiue,  Pemaquid,  and  Monhe- 
gan:  Wells  and  " Agamenticus,  the  ancient  city" 
of  York;  Kittery  Point;  "The  Sho.ils ;"  New- 
castle ;  Salem  and  Marblehead  ;  Plymouth  and 
Duxburj' ;  Nantucket  ;  Newport  ;  Mount  Hope  ; 
New  London,  Norwich,  and  Saybrook.  What  nat- 
ure has  to  show  and  history  to  tell  at  each  of  these 
places,  who  were  the  heroes  ami  worthies — all  this 
Mr.  Drake  gives  in  pleasant  talk — N.  T.  Tribune. 


Mv  DEAR  Mu.  Drake, — I  liave  given  your  beau- 
tiful book,  "Nooks  and  Corners  of  the  New  Eng- 
laiiil  Coast,"  a  pretty  general  perusal.  It  is  one 
"after  my  own  heart,"  and  I  thank  you  very  much 
fin'  it.  Your  Preface  is  an  admirable  "hit"  in 
more  ways  than  one.  Like  Grant,  whom  you  have 
quoted,  it  took  3'ou,  I  imagine,  all  winter  as  well 
as  idl  miiiiincr  to  accomplish  your  victory,  for  yon 
speak  of  experiences  with  snow  and  sleet. 

You  have  gathered  into  your  volunie.  in  the  most 
attractive  form,  a  vast  amount  of  historical  and  de- 
scrijitivo  matter  that  is  exceedingly  useful.  I  hope 
your  pen  will  not  be  stayed.  Your  friend  and 
brother  of  the  pen,  Benson  J.  Lossino. 

To  -  morrow  I  leave  home  for  a  week  or  two 
in  Maine,  and  shall  take  your  beautiful  volume, 
"Nooks  and  Corners  of  the  New  England  Coast," 
with  me  to  read  and  enjoy  at  leisure.  I  am  sure  it 
cannot  fail  to  he  very  interesting. 
Yours  faithfully, 

Henry  W.  Longfellow. 

I  need  not  tell  you  with  how  much  interest  both 
my  husband  and  mj'self — lovers  of  the  valley — look 
forward  to  your  work,  nor  how  much  pleasure  your 
"Nooks  and  Corners"  has  already  atTorded  us. 
With  most  cordial  regards, 

Harriet  P.  Spofford. 


His  style  is  at  once  simple  and  graphic,  and  his 
work  as  conscientious  and  faithful  to  fact  as  if  he 
were  the  dullest  of  annalists  instead  of  one  of  the 
liveliest  of  essayists  and  historians.  The  legitimate 
charm  of  variety — characteristic  of  a  work  of  this 
kind — makes  the  book  more  entertaining  than  any 
volume  of  similar  size  devoted  exclusively  to  chro- 
nology, biography,  essays,  or  anecdotes. — John  G. 
Saxe,  in  the  Brooklyn  Aryus. 

Mr.  Drake's  "Nooks  and  Corners  of  the  New 
England  Coast "  ought  to  be  in  the  hands  of  every 
one  who  visits  our  sea-side  resorts.  The  artistic 
features  serve  to  embellish  a  very  interesting  de- 
scri|)tiou  of  our  New  England  wateriug-places,  en- 
livened with  anecdotes,  bits  of  history  connected 
with  the  various  places,  and  pleasant  gossip  about 
people  and  things  in  general. — Saturday  Ercniny 
Gazette,  Boston. 


Published  by  HARPER  cfe  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

Harper  &  Brothers  will  stud  the  above  work  hit  nmil,  postiiffe  pn/xud,  to  any  part  of  the  United  Statin,  on 

receipt  of  the  price. 


GLOWING    TRIBUTES    TO    AMERICAN  ART. 


WHAT  LEADING  ENGLISH  PAPERS 


SAY  OF 


ii 


PASTORAL  DAYS; 


itK, 


MEMORIES   OF   A  NEW   ENGLAND   YEAR." 


By  W.  HAMILTON   GIBSON. 


4to,    IlluiTiinatecl    Cloth,    Gilt    Kdges,    $T    50. 


TEOM  "THE  TIMES,"  LONDON. 


The  litlc  of  this  very  beautifully  illustrated  book 
fonveys  hut  a  very  faint  idea  of  its  merits,  wliieli 
lie.  not  in  the  descriptions  of  the  varied  beautie.s  of 
the  tields  and  fens  of  New  England,  but  in  the  ad- 
mirable wood-enarravings,  which  on  cvcrj'  page  pict- 
ure far  more  than  could  be  given  in  words.  The 
autlior  has  the  rare  gift  of  feeling  for  the  exquisite- 
ly graceful  forms  of  plant  life  and  the  fine  touch 
of  an  expert  draughtsman,  which  enables  him  both 
to  select  and  to  draw  with  a  refinement  which  few- 
artists  in  this  direction  have  ever  shown.  Besides 
lhe.se  essential  ((ualities  in  a  painter  from  nature, 
Mr.  Gibson  has  a  tine  sense  of  the  poetic  and  pict- 
\iresque  in  landscape,  of  which  there  are  many 
charming  pieces  in  this  volume,  interesting  in 
themselves  as  pictures,  and  singularlv  so  in  their 
rcscml)lance  to  the  scenery  of  Old  England.  Jlo.st 
of  the  little  vignette -like  views  might  be  mis- 
taken for  Birket  Foster's  thoroughly  English  pict- 
lu'cs.  and  some  are  like  Old  C'romc's  vigorous  idyls. 
One  of  the  most  striking — a  wild  forest  scene  with 
a  storm  passing,  called  "The  Line  Storm" — is  quite 
reniarkalile  in  the  excellent  drawing  of  the  trees' 
swept  by  the  gale  and  in  the  general  compo.sition 
of  the  picture,  which  is  full  of  the  tnie  poetic  con- 
cejition  of  grandeiu-  in  landscape  beauty.  But  all 
Mr.  Gilison's  good  drawing  would  have  been  noth- 
ing unless  he  had  liecn  .so  ably  aided  liy  the  artist 
engravers,  who  have  throughout  worked  with  such 
sympathy  with  his  taste,  and  so  much  regard  for 
the  native  grace  of  wild  flowers,  grasses,  ferns,  in- 
spects, and  all  the  infinite  beauties  of  the  fields,  down 
to  the  mysterious  spider  and  his  silky  net  sjireadover 
the  bnimliles.  These  cuts  are  exceptional  examples 
of  beautiful  work.     Nothing  in  the  whole  round 


of  wood-engraving  can  surpass,  if  it  has  even  equal- 
led, these  in  delicacy  as  well  as  breadth  of  effect. 
Much  as  our  English  cutters  jiride  themselves  on 
belonging  to  the  school  which  Bewick  an<l  Jackson 
founded,  they  must  certainly  come  to  these  Ameri- 
can artists  to  learn  the  something  more  which  is  to 
be  fomid  in  their  works.  In  i)oinl  of  printing,  too. 
there  is  nuieh  to  be  learned  in  the  extremely  fine 
ink  and  paper,  which,  although  subjected  to  "hot- 
liressing,"  are  evidently  adapted  in  some  special 
condition  for  wood-printing.  The  printing  is  ob- 
viously by  hand-|5ress,*  and  in  the  arrangement  of 
the  type  with  the  cuts  on  each  page  the  greatest 
ingenuity  and  invention  are  disjilayed.  This,  too, 
has  been  designed  with  a  sort  of  a  .Japanesque  fancy ; 
here  is  a  tangled  mass  of  gi-asses  and  weeds,  with 
a  party  of  ants  stealing  out  of  the  shade,  and  there 
the  dragon-Hies  flit  across  among  the  blossoms  of 
the  reeds,  or  the  feathery  se^ds  of  the  dandelion 
float  on  the  page.  Each  .section  of  the  seasons  has 
its  suggestive  jiictiu'e  :  Springtime,  with  a  flight  of 
birds  under  a  may-flower  branch  thai  hangs  across 
the  brook  ;  Sununer,  a  host  of  butterflies  sporting 
round  the  wild  rose:  Autumn,  with  the  swallows 
flying  south  and  falling  leaves  that  strew  the  page; 
while  for  Winter  the  chrys.alis  hangs  in  the  leafless 
bough,  and  the  snow -clad  graves  in  the  village 
church-yard  tell  the  .same  story  of  sleep  and  awa- 
kening. As  many  as  thirty  diiTcrent  artists,  besides 
the  author  and  designer,  have  assisted  in  producing 
this  very  tastefully  illustrated  vohuni',  which  com- 
mends itself  by  its  genuine  artistic  merits  to  all 
lovers  of  the  picturcsijue  and  the  natural. 

*  The  Englistt  rpviowcr  is  in  error  hero.    Tlie  letterpress  and 
illustrations  were  printed  together  on  an  Adams  press. 


Glowiiif/  Trihutpx  lo  American  Art. 


PROM  "THE  SATUEDAY  EEVIEW,"  LONDON. 


This  ploasant  Amovican  book  lias  l)rou.!;iit  to  our 
romrmbnincc.  thousii  without  any  sense  of  imita- 
tion, two  old-fashioned  favorites.  In  the  first  lUaw. 
its  descriptions  of  rural  humanity,  its  rustle  sweet- 
ness and  humor,  have  a  certain  analojry  with  the 
delicately  pencilled  studies  of  life  in  Jliss  Jlitford's 
"Our  Villa,!i;e  ;"  but  the  relation  it  bears  lo  the  sec- 
ond book  is  much  closer.  It  is  more  than  forty 
years  since  Jlr.  P.  II,  Gosse  published  the  first  of 
those  delightful  sketches  of  animal  life  at  home 
which  have  led  so  many  of  us  with  a  wholesome 
inu'iio.se  into  the  woods  and  lanes.  It  was  in  the 
CdiHidiiin  NiilnritUM  that  he  broke  this  new  gi'ound ; 
and  though  we  do  not  think  this  has  ever  been  one 
of  his  best-known  books,  we  cannot  but  believe  that 
there  are  still  many  readers  who  will  be  reminded 
of  it  as  they  glance  down  Mr.  Gibson's  pages. 

People  must  be  strangely  constituted  who  do  not 
enjoy  such  pages  as  Mr.  Gibson  has  presented  to  us 
here.  It  is  not  merely  that  he  writes  well,  but  the 
subicct  itself  is  irresistibly  fascinating.  We  plunge 
Willi  him  into  the  silence  of  a  New  England  village 
in  a  clearing  of  the  woods.  The  spring  is  awaken- 
ing in  a  Hush  of  tender  green,  in  a  fever  of  warm 
days  and  shivering  nights,  and  we  hasten  with  our 
comjianion  through  all  the  liustle  and  stir  of  the 
few  busy  hours  of  light  so  swiftly  that  the  darkness 
is  on  us  before  we  are  aware.  Then  falls  on  the 
ear  a  pathetic,  an  intolerable  silence  ;  a  deeji  mist 
covers  the  ground,  a  few  lights  twinkle  in  scattered 
farms  and  cottages,  and  all  seems  brooding,  melt- 
ing, in  the  deep  and  throbbing  hush  of  the  dark- 
ness. *  *  *  The  wailing  of  the  great  owl  upon  the 
maple-tree  takes  our  author  back  in  meraoiy  to  the 
scenes  of  his  }"outh,  where  the  owl  was  looked  upon 
a.s  a  creature  of  most  sinister  omen,  and  his  own 
partiality  to  it,  as  a  proof  that  there  was  something 
uncanny  or  even  "fey"  about  him.  All  this  is 
described  with  gi-eat  sympathy  and  delicacy;  but 
perhaps  3Ir.  Gibson  is  most  felicitous  in  his  little 
touches  of  floral  painting.  He  has  a  few  words 
aliont  the  earthy,  spicy  fragrance  of  the  arbutus 
that  might  have  been  said  in  verse  by  the  late  Mr, 
Bryant ;  his  description  of  the  effect  of  biting  the 
bulbs  of  the  Indian  turnip,  or  "Jack-in-the-pulpit," 
is  inimitable  in  its  quiet  way ;  while  the  phrase 
about  the  fading  dandelions  —  "the  golden  star.s 
u]ion  the  lawn  are  nearly  all  burned  out ;  we  see 
their  downy  ashes  in  the  grass" — is  perhaps  the 
best  tiling  ever  said  about  a  humble  flower,  who.so 
vulgarity,  in  the  literal  sense,  blinds  us  to  the  beauty 
of  its  evolution  and  decav. 


In  his  studies  of  life  .and  country  manners  Mr. 
Gibson  is  a  very  agreeable  and  amusing,  if  not  (|uite 
so  novel,  a  companion.  Not  seldom  he  reminds 
us  not  merely  of  Miss  Mitford,  hut  sometimes  of 
Thoreau  and  of  Hawthorne.  The  .story  of  Aunt 
Iluldy,  the  village  crone  who  sustained  herself  upon 
simples  to  the  age  of  a  hundred  and  three,  is  one  of 
those  little  vignettes,  half  humorous,  half  pathetic, 
and  altogether  picturesque,  in  which  the  Ameri- 
cans excel.  Aunt  Huldy  was  an  old  witch  in  a 
scarlet  hood,  who.se  long  white  hair  flowing  behind 
her  was  wont  to  frighten  the  village  children  who 
came  upon  her  in  the  woods ;  but  she  was  abso- 
lutely harmless,  a  crazy  old  valetudinarian,  who 
was  always  searching  for  the  cli.xir  of  life  in  strange 
herbs  and  decoctions.  At  last  she  thought  she  had 
found  it  in  sweet-fern,  and  she  spent  her  last  years 
in  grubbing  up  every  specimen  she  could  find, 
smoking  it,  chewing  it,  drinking  it,  and  sleeping 
with  a  little  bag  of  it  tied  round  her  neck. 

But  although  Mr.  Gibson  writes  so  well,  he  mod- 
estly disclaims  all  pretension  as  a  writer,  and  lets  us 
know  that  he  is  an  artist  by  profession.  His  book 
is  illustrated  by  more  than  seventy  designs  from  his 
pencil,  engi'aved  in  that  beautiful  American  manner 
to  which  we  have  often  called  attention.  The  scenes 
designed  are  closely  analogous  to  those  descrilied  in 
the  text.  We  have  an  apple-orchard  in  full  blos- 
som, with  a  gi'oup  of  idlers  lounging  underneath  the 
boughs ;  scenes  in  the  fields  so  full  of  mystery  and 
stillness  that  we  are  reminded  of  JMillet.  or  of  our 
own  Mason  ;  clusters  of  flowers  drawn  with  all  the 
knowledge  of  a  botanist  and  the  s3anpathy  of  a  poet. 
It  is  hard  to  define  the  peculiar  pleasure  that  such 
illustrations  give  to  the  eye.  It  is  something  that 
includes  and  yet  transcends  the  mere  enjojinent  of 
whatever  artistic  excellence  the  designs  may  pos- 
sess. We  are  directly  reminded  by  them  of  such 
similar  scenes  as  have  been  either  the  rule  or  the 
still  more  fascinating  exception  of  eveiy  childish 
life,  and  at  their  suggestion  the  past  comes  back  ; 
in  the  familiar  Wordsworthian  phrase," a  river  flows 
on  through  the  vale  of  Cheapside." 

We  know  so  little  over  here  of  the  best  Ameri- 
can art  that  it  may  chance  that  Mr.  Gibson  is  very 
well  known  in  New  York.  We  confess,  however, 
that  we  never  heard  of  him  before;  but  his  draw- 
ings are  so  full  of  delicate  fancy  and  feeling,  and 
his  ^vl■iting  so  skilful  and  graceful,  that,  in  calling 
attention  to  his  book,  we  cannot  but  express  the 
hope  that  we  soon  may  hear  of  him  again,  in  either 
function,  or  in  both. 


IS^  "PASTORAL  DATS"  is  published  by  PIakper  <t  Brothers,  New 
York,  who  will  .send  the  work,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States, 
on  receipt  of  $7  50. 


HAKFEirS  GUIDE  TO  EUROPE. 


HAEPER'S  HAND-BOOK  FOR  TRAVELLERS  IN  EUROPE  AND  THE 
EAST :  being  a  Guide  througli  Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  France,  Belgium,  Hol- 
land, Germany,  Italy,  Egypt,  Syria,  Turkey,  Greece,  Switzerland,  Tyrol,  Spain, 
Russia,  Denmark,  Norway,  Sweden,  United  States,  and  Canada.  By  W.  Pkm- 
BROKE  Fetkidge.  Witli  Maps  and  Plans  of  Cities.  In  Three  Yolunies.  12mo, 
Leather,  Pocket-Book  Form,  §3  00  per  vol.     T/k;  volumes  sold  separately. 

Vol.  I.  Great  BinrAix,  Ireland,  France,  Belgicm,  Holland. 

Vol.  II.  Germany,  Austria,  Italy,  Sicily  and  Malta,  Egypt,  the  Desert, 
Sy'ria  and  Palestine,  Turkey,  Greece. 

Vol.  III.  Switzerland,  Tyrol,  Denmark,  Norway,  Sweden,  Russia,  Spain, 
United  States  ^vnd  Can^vda. 


It  has  stood  the  test  of  trying  experience,  and  has 
proved  the  traveller's  friend  in  all  emergencies. 
Each  year  has  added  to  its  attractions  and  value, 
until  it  is  about  as  near  perfect  as  it  is  possible  to 
make  it. — Bonton  Post. 

Personal  use  of  this  Guide  duriiiu;  several  visits 
to  various  portions  of  Europe  enables  us  to  attest 
its  merits.  No  American  is  fully  ef|uippcd  for 
travel  in  Europe  without  this  Iland-Book. — Phila- 
(h'lphiii  North  Atnerican. 

Take  "Harper's  Ilaud-Book,"  and  read  it  care- 
fully through;  then  return  to  the  parts  relating  to 
the  places  you  have  resolved  to  visit ;  follow  the 
route  on  the  maps,  and  particularly  study  the  plans 
of  cities.  So  you  will  start  with  sound  pre-knowl- 
edge,  which  will  snioothen  the  eiuirc  course  of 
travel. — P/dlndclp/tiit  Pjrus. 

The  book  is  not  only  unrivalled  as  a  guide-book, 
for  which  it  is  primarily  intended,  but  it  is  a  com- 
plete cyclopedia  of  all  that  relates  to  the  countries, 
towns,  and  cities  which  are  described  in  it — their 
curiosities,  most  notalile  scenes,  their  most  celelira- 
tcd  historical,  commercial,  literary,  and  artistic  cen- 
tres. Besides  general  descri|)lions  of  great  value, 
there  are  minute  and  detailed  accounts  of  every- 
thing that  is  worth  seeing  or  knowing  relative  to 
the  countries  of  the  Old  World.  The  great  value 
of  the  book  consists  in  the  fact  that  it  covers  all  the 
ground  that  any  traveller  may  pass  throtigh — being 
exhaustive  not  only  of  one  country  or  two.  but 
comprising  in  its  ample  jjages  exact  and  full  infor- 
mation respecting  every  country  in  Eiu'ojie  and  the 
East. — Christian  IiiteUigeneer,  N.  Y. 


It  is  a  marvellous  compendium  of  information, 
and  the  author  has  labored  haril  to  make  liis  book 
kee])  pace  with  the  progress  of  events.  *  *  *  It 
forms  a  really  valuable  work  of  reference  on  all 
the  topics  which  it  treats,  and  in  that  way  is  as 
useful  to  the  reader  who  stays  at  home  as  to  the 
traveller  who  carries  it  with  him  abroad. — N.  Y. 
Times. 

I  have  received  and  examinei'  with  lively  inter- 
est the  new  and  extended  edition  of  your  extremely 
valuable  "Hand -Book  for  Travellers  in  Europe 
and  the  East."  You  have  evidently  spared  no  time 
or  pains  in  con.solidating  the  results  of  your  wide 
travel,  your  great  experience.  You  succeed  in  pre- 
senting to  the  traveller  the  mo.sl  valuable  guide  and 
friend  with  which  I  have  the  good  forlime  to  hv 
accpiainted.  With  the  warmest  thanks,  I  beg  you 
to  receive  the  most  cordial  congratulation'*  of  your.s, 
very  faithfully,  .Ioiin  JIkueditii  Ke.vu,  .Ir..  I'/iitid 
Stiilrs  Minister  at  Greece. 

From  having  travelled  somewhat  extensively  in 
former  years  in  Europe  and  the  East. I  can  say  with 
entire  truth  that  you  have  succeeded  in  combining 
more  that  is  instructive  and  valuable  for  the  trav- 
eller than  is  contained  in  any  one  or  .series  of  hand- 
books that   1  have  ever   met  with. — T.  Bioelow 

L.\W1!ENCK, 

To  make  a  totir  abroad  without  a  guide-book  is 
impossible.  The  object  shoidd  l)e  to  secure  that 
which  is  most  complete  and  comprehensive  in  the 
least  compass.  The  .scope,  plan,  and  execution  of 
llariKT's  makes  it.  on  the  whole,  the  most  satisfac- 
tory that  can  be  found. — Atbany  Journal. 


Published  by  IIAKPEII  .\:  BROTHERS,  New  York. 


IIarpeh  &  Brotuehs  will  send  tin  uhmv  work  hi/  nntil,  jmstaye  prejKihl,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States,  on 

receipt  of  tlic  price. 


ENGLISH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

EDITED   BY  JOHN   MORLEY. 


The  following  volumes  are  now  ready : 

JOHNSON Leslie  Stephen. 

GIBBON J.  C.  MoHisoN.. 

SCOTT R.  H.  HuTTON. 

SHELLEY J.  A.  Symonus. 

HUME Professoi'  Huxley. 

GOLDSMITH William  Black. 

DEFOE William  Minto. 

BUKNS Principal  Shairp. 

SPENSER.  ■. The  Dean  of  St.  Paul's. 

THACKERAY Anthony  Tkollope. 

BURKE John  Morley. 

MILTON Mark  Pattison. 

SOUTHEY Professor  Dowden. 

CHAUCER Professor  A.  W.  Ward. 

BUNYAN J.  A.  Froude. 

COWPER GoLDwiN  Smith. 

POPE Leslie  Stephen. 

BYRON John  Niciiol. 

LOCKE Thomas  Fowler. 

WORDSWORTH F.  W.  H.  Myers. 

DRYDEN G.  Saintsbury. 

L ANDOR Professor  Sidney  Colvin. 

DE  QUINCEY Professor  D.  Masson. 

LAMB The  Rev.  Alfred  Ainger. 

BENTLEY Professor  Jebb. 

12mo,  Cloth,  75  cents  per  volume. 

HAWTHORNE.     By  Henry  James,  Jr 12ino,  Cloth,  $1  00. 

VOLUMES  IN  PREPARATION: 

SWIFT John  Morley. 

GRAY E.  W.  GossE. 

ADAM   SMITH Leonard  H.  Courtney. 

DICKENS Professor  A.  W.  Ward. 

Others  icill  be  announced. 


Published  by   HARPER   &   BROTHERS,  New  York. 

Harper  &  Brothers  will  send  any  of  the  above  works  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United 

States,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


ENGLISH     CLASSICS. 


EDITED,  WITH  NOTES, 


By  WM.  J.  ROLFE,  A.M. 


SHAKESPEARE'S    PLAYS. 


The    Merchant   of  Venice. 

The    Tempest. 

Julius    Coesar. 

Hamlet. 

As   You    Like    It. 

Henry   the   Fifth. 

Macbeth. 

Heni-y   the    Eighth. 

Midsummer-Night's   Dream. 

Richard   III. 

Richard   the    Second. 

Much   Ado   About   Nothing. 

Antony    and    Cleopatra. 

Romeo   and   Juliet. 

Othello. 

Timon 


Twelfth    Night. 
The   \Vinter"s    Tale. 
King   John. 
Henry    IV.    Part  I. 
Henry    IV.    Part  II. 
King   Lear. 

Taming   of  the    Shre^v. 
All's  Well   that   Ends   Well. 
Coriolanus. 
Comedy   of  Errors. 
Cymbeline. 

Merry  Wives   of  Windsor. 
Measure   for   Measure. 
Two    Gentlemen   of  Verona. 
Love's   Labour 's  Lost, 
of  Athens. 


SELECT    POEMS    OF    OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 
SELECT   POEMS    OF    THOMAS    GRAY. 

ILLUSTRATED. 

IOmo,  Cloth,  56  Cents  per  Volume  ;   Paper,  40  Cents  per  VoLr^rE. 


In  tlie  preparation  of  this  edition  of  the  English  Classics  it  has  been  the  aim  to  adapt  tlicni 
for  school  and  home  reading,  in  essentially  the  same  way  as  Greek  and  Latin  Classics  are  edited 
for  educational  purposes.  The  chief  requisites  are  a  pure  text  (expurgated,  if  necessary),  and  the 
notes  needed  for  its  thorough  explanation  and  illustration. 

Each  of  Shakespeare's  plays  is  comjilcte  in  one  volunu',  .-md  is  preceded  by  an  introduction 
containing  the  "History  of  the  Play,"  the  "Sources  of  the  Plot,"  and  "Critical  Comments  on 
the  Play." 

PuBLLsiiED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

IIarteu  &  Brothers  will  send  any  of  fhr  ahovc  wnrkx  hi/  wail,  postage  prepaid^  to  ant/  part  of  the  United 

States^  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


itg 


RETURN  TO  the  circulation  desk  of  any 
University  of  California  Ubrary 
or  to  the 
NORTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
BIdg.  400,  Richmond  Field  Station 
University  of  California 
Richmond,  CA  94804-4698 


ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

•  2-month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling 
(510)642-6753 

•  1-year  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing 
books  to  NRLF 

•  Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4 
days  prior  to  due  date. 


DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


JUL  2  9  2002 


W 


JSSi 


;^« 


iS 


"^^ 


12.000(11/95) 


.W' 


^^^ 


h 


"W 


(i^ 


r-m 


m 


^m' 


4m 


m) 


its^. 


M44448 


4/ 


,^ 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


^J 


s^l 


G*^ 


W 


Lonjitiido    Wcat    tram    Qreenwicli, 


MAP    OF 

VERMONTa^-^NEW  HAMPSHIRE 


Sctdcof^mes. 


iti/ii'hwi^ 


E3CT=LA3Srji.TI03Sr. 

Capital -^  Itallrond ' 

Coiinlj- or  Shire  To«-a.   a  River ~ 

City  or  Town o  Canal 7^ 


CoK'lirook.  /     "^  \ 


i 


"Wen  I  WOT  fli  a  fft^cfti  Ion 


--vnitoirailBy 


"^:>^V       J   O 


Mil 


'  \    Burlii 


Indprlilll  t/.ff        O 


^   St. George 
,  ,  1^  glliDCsLnrRtL 

|""y^'i  irlotte  IT   I  .1^    , 

('^  "     (j     -«    (^     -liTUrgiiEtoa   , 


^   ,Jto\liury 


I  1  J      -yiVliildlebury     "'>»>-,', 

' H(       ,:)  Con/^allSS  KJ^Ii.ldltl.nry    ^oj 

(Win    ir^ii  ri,^Si»»ii!^^  _  S«_   --..ij 


■]  /#l)eDsnn^    1^         rj!t.-/ft.rd  /■?■        "Chtftenaen  L      -^  !>..    romranoosij^  i 


Brandon    i-itupcid 


^  "E.-SlralTord  t 

tofnltaii"  •-j:,Tl.ri^i"rd^ 

(aStaroO; 
romfa 


"Wcniworlli'-s 


E 


"^tx^^,  CastletonC 
■      Poultney  ^j^ 

Fl.Pomtiii'y  / 
j  MydJeiowiy 


Or         Humni'p 

t"  PIymouth\ 

"Lfttj.        Groion 

nctirocfS; 
oOxange     [ft'Sk^opyz- 1 


?  (?Madtson 

Tajiiivlu-[h      D)  ~  I 

S.  TaTHTtgrlh   l^^t  Freednjii 


Csrdigar 


■oJ\ 


t'^         TTeatPun- 


=  .Wn]iiliefotd       .'       *^C?V^^  ^C:"^' '■'  ^^^D"tL  i    i?     ^-.M 


rafTord^ 


lol:)(on  Fulls 
Ii.lUi.-.n.rd 


^n-^cr 


/ 


T.-ongitudc         T.aal, 


from        Washingtin. 


r.,,.^,i.jh,-\%-n.h</  Jlati.,r  d-  Bfihrn.) 


yr..m  nar].,r\  S.I.-..1  I. 


,  ,V,«.  Kn.jUnJ  iW.'f..." 


1 


f 


.J   ■*. 


^^^H^ 

mi ^ 

^m.      ^w*-**^"       ,.,   ^"^  ^     , 

1 

\  ^  jjl^^dv,^^^^! 

j^Mj^H 

V-^y.  ^W^  J|^^^^^^^H 

% 

/*i 

